


To Achieve Their Ends

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Harry isn't dark or grey he is still good, Harry's a Slytherin, M/M, No character bashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Slow Burn, Wizarding Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 19:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: "Are you sure?" said the small voice. "Well, if you're sure – better be SLYTHERIN!"In which Harry is instead sorted into Slytherin, learns the hard way that being a heroic Saviour is more difficult than it sounds, and really, he should have shaken that damn hand.





	1. Sorted!

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this fic a thousand years ago in a land far, far away called FF.Net under the title of "Slytherin!". After the hurdle of writers roadblock, I finally got around to plotting the entire thing including the ending, ended up deciding it'll be way longer than initially planned, but blast me with a blast-ended skrewt if I don't finish it this time, so I'm gonna give this AU another go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to explain, I love the Gryffindors, but I firmly believe in the Sorting Hat deciding based on personality alone with none of this choice rubbish. So this fic is about how Harry would have had to adapt if the Sorting Hat did it's damn job. Which is why I also realised that Hermione in Philosopher's Stone, with her adherence to rules and show-off ambitious nature, was made for Slytherin, so that's why she's there too.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment. “When I call your name, you will put on a hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said, then called out, ‘Abbott, Hannah!’

Harry swallowed, glancing at the other first years. Most looked eager, others frowning in determination, uncertainty fading from their faces as the hat continued to shout of houses from atop each new student's head.

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to Harry, “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a Troll.”

Harry smiled weakly, inwardly wishing that they could have tried it on without all those people watching. He tried to surreptitiously wipe his sweaty palms on his robes, the chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties from the train churning in his stomach. The hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn’t feel brave or quick-witted or any of that other stuff at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt queasy, that would be the one for him. What if he was sick in front of the whole school? What if…? Harry’s stomach did an unpleasant flip as a horrible thought occurred to him. What if he wasn’t chosen at all? What if he just sat there with the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a mistake, and he had better get back on the train. He could still hear the Dursley’s laughter when they had dropped him off at King’s Cross - he couldn’t bear to imagine their reactions when he revealed he’d been kicked out because he couldn’t even impress a talking hat.

So caught up in imagining the Dursley’s cackling when he turned up at their doorstep again, he almost missed when Professor McGonagall called out, “Potter, Harry!” As he stumbled forwards, whispers broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the Hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second, he was looking at the black inside of the hat, the sounds from the hall strangely muffled despite the worn cloth. Heart thundering in his ears, he waited.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting … So where shall I put you?"

Then there was silence. Why wasn’t the hat saying anything? Harry gripped the edges of the stool, his stomach clenching with fear. This was it, the hat couldn’t place him, the voice would say he didn't belong anywhere, that there _was_ a mistake; that he should go back, back to the Dursley's. Squeezing his eyes shut, he thought, ‘Please, just say a house, any at all.’

"Are you sure?" said the small voice. "Well, in that case – better be SLYTHERIN!"

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. Relief washed over him as the hat was lifted from his head, until the words sunk in. Slytherin. The house everyone had scorned, the one Hagrid had told him had produced all the bad wizards. The relief was drowned by bitter disappointment as he hopped off the stool, dimly aware of the clapping that had erupted from the table second from the right. He had wanted a house, but Slytherin? The same house as Vol- as You-Know-Who? He chanced a look at Ron as he walked past and saw his gloomy look mirrored on the face of the first friend he'd ever made.

The Slytherin table were still clapping as he made his way over, several of them twisting in their seats to pat him on the back as he went by. A few whooped loudly, causing several other students to giggle. Despite his disappointment, Harry’s face began to burn as the enthusiastic clapping continued. His mood only further soured when he noticed the smirking face of Draco Malfoy further down the table next to the pearly figure of a dour-looking ghost. Harry scowled, and looked hurriedly for the closest gap far away from him, scrambling into a space between a lanky boy with a mop of blonde hair and, he noted with surprise, the bushy-haired girl from the train, Hermione Granger.

Trying to school his expression into something a little less miserable, Harry smiled weakly. "Hullo again. Guess we're in the same house."

Granger pursed her lips, nodding curtly before pointedly turning her back on him to watching the rest of the sorting. Ron had just stumbled up to the sorting hat looking slightly green, only for the hat to quickly shout "GRYFFINDOR!" Harry's stomach plummeted with the last small hope that Ron might also be in the same house as him as the final boy 'Zabini, Blaise' was also made a Slytherin. It’s good he’s in the same house as his brothers, Harry told himself firmly. How depressing that even the voice inside his own head didn’t sound convinced.

Albus Dumbledore had got to his feet. "Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

This this odd pronouncement with claps and cheers, drawing Harry from his misery. "Is he – a bit mad?" he asked the older boy next to him uncertainly, nodding to Dumbledore.

The older boy shrugged. "Dumbledore's one of the greatest wizards of our time, or so they say. With great power comes great insanity. Mmm, Yorkshire pudding."

Harry's mouth fell open as the golden dishes suddenly filled with food from thin air.

Now that the feasting part had seemingly begun, the students around him broke into loud chatter, laughter and conversations ringing through the hall. Harry helped himself to a bit of everything, deciding to watch and listen to the other students as he ate. As far as he could see, the Slytherins all seemed normal enough, if a bit snooty.

Granger was quizzing the bored-looking Prefect opposite them about lessons. The hard-faced girl who had been sorted just before him was excitedly recounting her holiday in Monaco to her friend. A group of older boys was having a heated debate over the recent loss of their quidditch team. The squat boy across the table was busy wolfing down as much as he could eat, shovelling food into his mouth so fast he didn't seem to be chewing. The sallow girl next to Granger looked sick when a loud slurp from the boy caused gravy to spatter the table, the other students shooting filthy looks his way.

Harry's neighbour finally paused in his meal to snarl at the other boy. "For Merlin's sake Bole, slow down, you're embarrassing yourself, and more importantly, disgusting the rest of us."

With a giant effort, Bole swallowed his mouthful and shook his drumstick at the older boy. "I've got to eat more, build up my strength. I'm trying out for the team this year."

The older boy blinked slowly. "Blimey, I didn't know you knew how to ride a broom, Bole!" he exclaimed with mock surprise. "That'll be a sight; I've never seen a shaved gorilla on a broomstick before."

The hard-faced girl burst into laughter as Bole frowned, evidently confused. Smirking, the other boy turned to Harry. "Terrence Higgs" he said with a wink. "Seventh year. I play Seeker for Slytherin. And of course, you're Harry Potter."

"Er, y-yeah," said Harry, thrown by the sudden shift in attention. Higgs had a very snooty voice, like the posh boys that occasionally swanned through the London underground in their stupidly striped blazers and knee-high socks. It was a bit annoying that a toff like that was making him embarrassed, but Harry could feel his face begin to burn again as Higgs' eyes flittered over his forehead. "So, um, you play Seeker?" he said weakly. His fingers twitched, longing to smooth down his fringe.

Higgs hummed distractedly, eyes constantly flickering up to Harry’s forehead.

“Is the, um, the Quidditch team very good? The Slytherin one, I mean?” Harry asked desperately, hands balled into fists to resist the urge to flatten his fringe.

Higgs finally focused on his words, a smug smile curling his lips. “ _Obviously._ We’ve been in the finals of the Inter-House _Quidditch_ Cup for the past five years, _and_ won the last two.”

Harry was pretty sure he didn’t quite disguise his automatic eye-roll at this boast, and Higgs’ sharp eyes didn’t miss it, narrowing dangerously, but Harry switched to his tried and true fall-back to dealing with vain idiots: overly bright flattery.

“Oh, _wow_! Slytherin must be really amazing!” Harry beamed. “I had _no_ idea this House was so cool.” A bit much, but the way Higgs relaxed, smirk falling back into place, it seemed to do the job.

"Well now," the dark-skinned boy next to Higgs leaned over him, eyeing Harry. "Glad to hear The Boy-Who-Lived is happy to be in _our_ House. I'd say this calls for a toast, but the other houses will only get jealous, I'm sure." He lifted his golden goblet anyway. Several of the nearby Slytherins chortled.

Harry’s smile slipped a little. "Oh, um… thank you? It’s nice how welcoming… you all… are." His forehead was itching now under so much unusual scrutiny. His hand jumped up to automatically flatten his fringe, trying at the last minute to disguise the movement by fiddling with his glasses, which of course did not draw attention to his scar _at_ _all_.

"Ooooh, so _that's_ it, the famous curse scar!" said the hard-faced girl, shamelessly leaning forward for a better look. Flushing at the attention, Harry gave up and ducked his head, flattening his fringe.

"Don't act all bashful," the dark-skinned boy reproachfully. "You are the famous Harry Potter. That mark on your head is of some notoriety. You would do well not to cover it, as if it’s something shameful!"

"Come now, Dewan" purred the Prefect, abruptly breaking off her conversation Granger to chime in. "His modesty is charming, it is not? That could work just as well. Too prideful and he might as well be a Lion. His blushes are far more enticing." Granger scowled at the swerve in conversation.

Unwillingly, Harry could feel his cheeks flush even more. The sallow girl beside Granger giggled.

“Steady on, Greengrass,” Dewan drawled, “He’s still a little first-year.”

The Prefect Greengrass’ smile was razor sharp. “Just an observation. Some of us were raised with a little decorum. Besides, Harry didn’t mind, _did_ you, Harry dear?”

Mumbling indistinctly seemed good enough an answer, so Harry kept his head firmly down, face ablaze. Next time he wasn’t going to be so damn picky about his seating arrangements and just sit next to the Slytherin ghost – at least the Bloody Baron didn’t seem to chatty sort. Anything to save him from this unpleasant conversation.

On cue, Draco Malfoy elbowed his way onto the seat opposite Harry. "Having fun, Potter?" he sneered.

Even if the interruption to the conversation was welcome, Harry would rather eat his socks than admit he was grateful for Malfoy's presence. Harry tried to communicate this via glare, but this only seemed to please Malfoy, that insufferable smirk widening.

"What's the matter? Look at all the new friends you're making! Oh wait, I know. You don't want them. You already have friends, don't you?" He tipped his chin at the table on the opposite wall. Harry could see Ron sandwiched between his brothers, Percy the Prefect spooning a pile of greens onto Ron's plate with a frown. He was chatting with the other Gryffindor boys, a smile on his face. He looked _happy_.

Harry swallowed, staring determinedly down at his plate and tried not to feel miserable.

Malfoy leaned over the table, eyes glinting malevolently. "Bet you wished you hadn't chosen that riffraff before, eh? Bet you wished you knew who to choose as a friend earlier."

Harry bristled. "Better than ever choosing you," he hissed back.

Around them, the older students tittered. Malfoy's pale cheeks flushed, but already his mouth was twisting into a cruel smile. “Going to hang out with that blood traitor for the next seven years, then?”

"Just because we're in different houses now doesn't mean me and Ron can't be friends," Harry spat back.

At once both Bole and Higgs laughed, Bole spraying food across the table and onto the sallow girl, who howled with rage. Greengrass cleared the mess with a bored flick of her wand and a drawled, “Don’t make a such a fuss, little Queenie.”

"Ah bless him, first years are so naïve," Higgs chortled, patting Harry shoulder fondly. Harry stiffened at the condescending tone, the overly familiar touch. "Listen Potter, Slytherins and Gryffindors hate one another on principle. Our rivalry is practically traditional at this point, may as well be on the Hogwarts crest. Besides, we never associate with meatheads like them," he explained, disdainful gaze sweeping over the other house table.

"Ah, but Potter can ‘tell the wrong sort for himself’, can't he?" said Malfoy softly, cold malice in every word. "He just loves paling around with blood traitors and mudbloods."

Once again, a bunch of words and terms he’d never heard before; the day had been exhausting enough without Malfoy reminding Harry that he didn’t know squat about the magical world with new bloody words. "Yeah, well, I don't even know what a mudblood _is_ Malfoy, but I’m guessing it’s a slimy git like you?"

This time the sallow girl answered, "That’s because he’s being crude, you shouldn’t use that word, Harry. But he means those who don’t have a drop of magical blood in their ancestry, you know, _muggleborn_." Her face twisted in disdain as if that too was some horrible swear.

Granger twisted in her seat, apparently now interested in the conversation. "For your information, _I_ happen to be muggleborn" she snapped angrily.

Rather than appearing abashed, the other girl stiffened and leaned away from Granger as though she were diseased.

"A muggleborn?" hissed the hard-faced girl beside Bole, staring at Granger opened mouthed. "In Slytherin?" Her mouth began to curl into a cruel smile, as Malfoy openly snickered.

Granger’s self-righteous ire flickered uncertainly. "Well, yes. So what? The sorting hat _did_ place me here, and _I_ certainly think I’m ‘cunning’ enough or whatever it was the Hat said," she stated as defiantly as possible with everyone in the vicinity goggling at her. “So I’m here. Is- is that a problem?”

Higgs and Dewan shared a look, before Higgs shook his head. "Bloody hat, what was it thinking. As if we just take any old person in our great house.”

“What can you expect from a hat that belonged to old Godric Gryffindor?” Dewan spat, throwing a venomous glare at Granger. “Evidently it doesn’t give a shit about blood, the stupid thing. Now we’ve got the first damn mudblood in Slytherin. In our noble house!”

Both Harry and Granger drew back, shocked by the malice the older boys suddenly exuded. So this, Harry realised, was what Ron had meant about being in Slytherin – apparently the house of stuck-up wankers.

“Well,” said Higgs slowly, giving her a slow appraising look. “At least this’ll be _interesting_. And just to make it more sporting, I’ll give you some advice: You'd better learn some damn good counter-curses if you want any peace. Buuuut, that being said, it’ll be fun to see what gets past your guard. My money is on you waking up with tentacles. Or maybe green. Or in the Lake with the Giant Squid."

Granger looked horrified, "B-but no one would… surely that's against the rules!" she gasped, looking at the Prefect girl for reassurance. "I mean, no one will try and… _attack_ me, will they? Just because my parents weren’t magical?"

It was a loud silence following her question, the other students suddenly becoming very interested in their dessert, but of course, it was Malfoy who answered her with glee.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about a thing," he said cheerily, Harry’s eyes narrowing at how amiable his tone was. Malfoy continued unperturbed. "Slytherins are masters at being subtle. If you _do_ get jinxed, well, more correctly, _when_ you get jinxed, you won't even know what hit you. It’ll be an accident, right? A silly mistake. It’s not like it would be on _purpose,_ right? And of course, there’ll be no evidence, not like you’d have proof even if you did go cry to the teachers. Bet you would, too. Bet you’re the type to run off crying to the adults because you’re a weak little nobody who can’t take care of herself."

Malfoy grinned slyly and looked Harry in the eye as he continued, "And weak doesn't belong in Slytherin. Weak doesn't _survive_ long in Slytherin."

The silence after this little speech was somehow even louder than before. Granger blinked rapidly, anger draining from her face as her eyes became glassy. She ducked her head, bushy hair falling in a thick curtain around her face. Harry glanced uncertainly around him, but the other students now seemed to be determinedly focused elsewhere.

 _Definitely_ a house of stuck-up wankers.

Harry gritted his teeth, angry at the heavy lump of dread suddenly lodged in his stomach. They’re just bullies, he told himself firmly. No different from Dudley really. Squaring his shoulders, Harry put on his best glare. “Just shove off, Malfoy.”

“And why should I? This is _our_ house table, after all, and at least I _know_ I belong here,” Malfoy said slowly, vicious smile unflinchingly in place. “Besides, I think we’re getting along swimmingly, don’t you? I just know the next seven years will be _so_ much fun.”

Harry had never really thought he could hate someone more than the Dursleys, but looking into Malfoy's pale grey eyes, he decided perhaps he'd been wrong. At least he’d had plenty of practising pushing down the furious words he longed to spit back, and there’s was some satisfaction to be had in ignoring everyone as Malfoy strutted off, choosing instead to spend the rest of the feast in stony silence.

By the time the feast ended Harry was exhausted, mentally and physically, stumbling over his feet as he followed Granger blindly through the castle as they trailed after the other first years. Clanging through his head was the single terrifying thought: Just how on earth was he supposed to deal with seven more years of this? And he’d been really looking forward to this. Leaving the Dursley’s, being a part of this weird new world, learning _actual_ magic. It’d all been too good to be true.

He was only half aware that they were heading down, until at last they stopped before a blank patch of stone wall. The Prefect girl leading the first years stepped forward and said in an authoritative voice, "Aurum potestas est."

A stone door concealed in the wall slid open, revealing the Slytherin common room, a long underground room with stone walls and polished oak panelling from which round, greenish lamps glowed. Ornate armchairs with velvet cushions sat around an elaborately carved mantelpiece, where an enormous fire crackled, its warmth radiating throughout the room. It reminded Harry of his nosy Aunt Petunia’s favourite television show, the equally nosy female host wandering around the country houses of wealthy families looking unimpressed with their sumptuous surroundings.  The common room looked like what Uncle Vernon had always disdainfully deemed ‘Old Money’, ostentatious and remote, but despite the extravagant décor, Harry felt oddly at ease. The warmth of the fireplace combined with the green lamps made him feel like he was underwater in a very warm pool, which only served to make him sleepier than before.

The girls filed off to their dormitories, Granger trailing behind them without a word, face perfectly blank. Harry sighed, reluctantly shuffling away with the other boys. At the end of a low hall he at last found his room: five four-poster beds hung with emerald-green velvet curtains, their trunks lining the walls. Harry hurried to change into his pyjamas, almost too tired to be irritated that Malfoy had chosen the bed next to him. Almost.

He distractedly pulled his worn pyjama pants on, aware of the gaze burning into his back.

“So…” that drawling voice began, but Harry vaulted into the bed, pyjama shirt only half buttoned.

"Go ahead and try and ignore me all you want," Malfoy hissed as Harry yanked the velvet curtains closed, but the soft voice slithered through the fabric regardless. "But we'll be spending the next seven years together. Can you keep up this grudge for that long?"

"Only if you keep making it so easy, Malfoy" he growled back, letting his head sink into the sinfully soft pillow.

Sleep was already halfway to claiming him as a drawling voice muttered, "Just for you, Potter, just for you."

 

 

 

Despite the breathtaking majesty a castle offered, looming over the sunny ground and perfect mirror of the lake, it wasn't, Harry mused, the best place to turn into a school. Particularly when that castle happened to be a _magic_ castle, what with doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, vanishing steps, ghosts, and the resident poltergeist, Peeves. _And a hundred and forty-two staircases!_

Of course, Harry loved all these magical things, and loved Hogwarts even more for it, despite its many eccentricities. However, when he was stuck up to his thigh in the trick step on one of the _hundred and forty-two staircases_ with Malfoy roaring with laughter as various students openly goggled at him as they passed, his delight in these magical elements were, currently, rather low.

"Damn it Malfoy, either help me out or piss off!" he snarled, frantically yanking at his leg as a group of fourth year girls giggled loudly at him.

So far, his first day at Hogwarts had been a blur, a whirlwind of new classmates, teachers, and Malfoy’s snide remarks. Nervous about the classes themselves, about navigating to the classes, and the blatant stares that followed him between those classes were no less embarrassing as they’d been the night before, which meant Harry’s temper was running dangerously short. But Malfoy was proving to be exceptionally talented in pushing Harry to his limits. It was like dealing with Dudley, but one who didn’t have a brain made out of bricks, which made ignoring him all the harder, each nasty word pouring from Malfoy’s mouth making Harry bristle with fury, even when he needed his full attention on getting to his classes. Which was a task in of itself; it was difficult navigating an entire castle, but a magically castle made the task even harder, especially when most of Harry’s focus was constantly being redirected towards the arrogant little git swaggering along next to him.

Which of course made him forget all about the trick step.

"This is all _your_ stupid, bloody fault!" Harry shouted as his leg sunk another inch.

Malfoy peered down at him owlishly. "How mean of you, blaming me!" He even pouted, although his face couldn’t seem to maintain that for more than a few seconds before the cruel smirk slid back into place. "But what did you say my options were? Help you or leave you? I think I'll go, and you can remain there until the weekend if you want."

He turned away and Harry swore furiously. The other students were already thinning out as they hurried to class, probably incorrectly assuming Malfoy would help him, and judging by last night, none of the older Slytherins that were passing by seemed the kind to lend a helping hand. It was time to swallow his pride, if only for a moment.

"Hang on, Malfoy!" he called out desperately, but Malfoy kept climbing the staircase. Harry began to panic – Malfoy wasn't really going to leave him there, was he? "Malfoy, don't go, I need your help!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry felt his face heat up, wishing the words back into his mouth. Damn it all, but he'd never felt so pathetic in his entire life. Thankfully, Malfoy had paused, then slowly turned around. He wore the biggest, smuggest grin, and cocking his head to the side, regarded Harry with unconcealed glee.

"What was that, Potter?" he asked innocently.

"You heard me the first time!" Harry snarled back.

"Yeah, I did," admitted Malfoy with a smirk, "But I want you to say it again."

Bollocks! Now Harry was more than literally stuck. To stay there or to beg? It was tempting to just stay there, especially with the way those grey eyes were glittering maliciously. But he needed to get to his class. Plus, his thigh had just gone numb. Gritting his teeth, he spat out with best facsimile of politeness, "Malfoy, I would really appreciate it if you helped me out of this step."

There was a long pause, long enough that Harry started wondering with horror if Malfoy expected him to say ‘Please’. At last, to his utter relief, Malfoy turned back, taking each stair with deliberate slowness. Locking his eyes with Harry's, he slowly stretched out a hand. Harry was irresistibly reminded of the train to Hogwarts, and the offered hand of friendship. And the refusal.

Looking into those grey eyes, Harry knew Malfoy was thinking of that too. Harry reached for Malfoy's hand. Those grey eyes flared with triumph as Harry’s fingers slid against his palm.

Malfoy jerked his hand back.

"Sorry, Potter," he whispered maliciously. "But now we're even. Next time, don't refuse help when it's offered. See you around."

And with a twirl of his robes, he vanished up the stairs, smiling at Harry's scream of rage.

"Oh my! Late on your first lesson!" squeaked the tiny Charms teacher, Professor Flitwick, as Harry entered the classroom ten minutes later, red-faced and flushed. "And you are…?"

"Harry Potter, sir" he muttered, "Sorry I'm so late sir, but I fell in the trick step and I had to wait until a teacher came by to get out again."

Professor Flitwick gave an excited squeak at his name and toppled off the pile of books he was standing on. When he re-emerged, he was beaming at Harry. "Well then, no harm done, this _is_ your first week here, so tardiness is forgivable. But was there no one there to help you? A fellow classmate, perhaps?"

At this, Harry threw a venomous glare at Malfoy, who pulled a face at Harry behind Flitwick's back. "No one, sir," he lied, taking his seat beside Tracy Davis. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out Hermione Granger scowling at him, and wondered what it was he'd possibly done to upset her. They hadn’t spoken since the unpleasantness at the feast last night, and Harry had assumed that Granger was somehow angry with as well as the others, seeing as she was ignoring them all completely.

But as soon as class ended, Granger dropped into step beside him. Harry thought he should probably ask if Granger was alright after what happened the night before, if the other girls had been nasty at all in the dorms.

“How are yo-” Harry began, before Granger cut him off.

It wasn’t about last night, or the stupid attitude the Slytherin’s had, or even about what had happened in class so far. No, Granger wanted to give a very long and snooty lecture on school rules and the horrors of tardiness. How it was important to be diligent even on his first day of classes. How important appearances were. How on earth he could bear walking about on his first day of school without flattening that messy hair of his.

Harry was ever so slightly reminded of his Aunt Petunia.

“I didn’t come late on purpose,” Harry muttered petulantly, but Granger merely tutted.

“First impressions are important, you know,” she said, glancing furtively at the backs of their classmates. “And flouting school rules is a sure-fire way to draw attention to yourself. You don’t want a black-mark against your name already, do you?”

Harry inwardly marvelled at how bossy a person’s voice could be. Wasn’t the Sorting Hat supposed to put them in houses with similar personalities or something? This talk of educational discipline was nearly as dull as listening to his uncle talk about drills.

“And another thing-”

"Honestly, Granger, you act as if school rules are the be-all and end-all. No doubt that’s the case with _muggle_ schools," sallow Daphne Greengrass scoffed back at them. Immediately Granger’s face turned stony. “Hogwarts is an ancient centre of magical forces, it has secrets and tricks all through it to its very foundation. It takes real knowhow to not be tricked up by it. _Everyone_ knows that. So that’s why tardiness is allowed on your first day, plus, we’re sweet little first years who don’t know any better."

"That’s right, rules don’t apply while we’re still learning the ropes," the hard-faced Pansy Parkinson added, flicking her bangs with a haughty sniff. "Besides, a _true_ Slytherin knows that rules are only important so long as they benefit us."

"Well, that’s not how I-" Granger began, but this time Malfoy cut her off.

"No, Granger, don’t you get it? We don’t care. _This_ is how it works: Slytherins only follow rules when they work in our favour. Otherwise, they're there as general guidelines, to be broken or bent to our advantage. That's why the other houses suck: they always follow the rules, Gryffindor more than most, the puffed-up prats. My father always says that rules exist to help us rise to the top, it’s not about obeying them or not, it’s only about success. A pureblood would _know_ that. And besides, nothing's illegal until you're caught, and even then, it's not set in stone, so long as you spin it right. So stop trying to tell us how it should be when you don’t know a thing about how we do things here in the wizarding world."

Daphne Greengrass was nodding sagely. “That’s the pureblood way. As a muggleborn who doesn’t know _anything_ , it would be a good idea if you listened to those of us who actually know what we’re doing.”

Harry scowled at her superior tone, but unlike last night, instead of looking hurt Granger straightened, a startling sunny smile on her face. “Oh _really_? So, it _is_ true that there are pureblood mores?” she said in cheery monotone. “I’d read about it, but none of that was mentioned in any of the recent chapters of _Hogwarts: A History_ , so I thought that sort of old fashioned stuff had died out, you know _._ Maybe it just wasn’t important enough to mention. I’d better go read that again, maybe it can enlighten me a bit more on your ‘proper pureblood ways’.”

And with that, she swept off. A quick glance at his classmates’ thunderous expressions had Harry hurry after her, even as he inwardly cheered her words. Still, this would probably not end well.

 

 

 

As if Hogwarts wasn’t proving complicated enough, Harry was taking his first overdue go at the whole friendship business and it was proving more difficult that he would have liked.

He’d managed the first few days of classes so far, insofar as his teachers didn’t yell at him for being, as one teacher had put it, a dunderhead – in fact, it was surprising to find that he wasn’t miles behind everyone else despite having a class full of kids from magical families. Neither of Malfoy’s hulking bodguards, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, had much when it came to critical thinking beyond "chocolate or vanilla", and Pansy Parkinson seemed more interested in proving to be better than Daphne Greengrass and vice versa than following what was being said in class. In fact, the only one who didn’t seem to be struggling at all with the new content was Granger, who after the standoff after Charms seemed strangely buoyed, intent on besting all her classmates and proving herself worthy of being in Slytherin, a tenacity that was, despite their best attempts to relentlessly ostracise her, garnering the attention of the other Slytherins enough into reassessing her points.

Maybe it was because they both had miss stepped that first night and there was some weird unspoken camaraderie but somehow Harry was spending an awful lot of time with Granger. She tolerated his presence next to her, and that was preferable to being near the other Slytherins, so Harry didn’t mind, even if she was relentlessly annoying. A silent and distant sort of amity, that had been all of Harry’s relationships with students that didn’t outright avoid him because of Dudley.

But the points were making the whole friendship situation a little murkier. And the points were another thing.

Learning how to navigate Hogwarts, and even the subjects, were nothing, _nothing_ , compared to how difficult surviving the Slytherin House was turning out to be.

Of course, Harry had very quickly realised that his house was not like the others, seeing as it was comprised of stuck up prats, but he was pretty sure the other houses didn’t function _quite_ like Slytherin did. In the other houses, year groups didn’t really intermingle, instead forming small friendship groups within their years, giggling girls in their little cliques and boys clustering around like-minded boys.

There was none of that in Slytherin.

Instead, the Slytherin house was based on a complex social hierarchy that no one was exempt from. It was the same kind of weird social structing that was unspoken, the kind Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon excelled at with the rest of the neighbourhood – sticking their noses into each other’s business, gossiping constantly, jockeying for positions and shunting people down the ladder for the smallest of reasons.

Stupid, petty, pointless nonsense. And Harry was stuck right smack dab in the middle of it all. The Slytherins had set up their own informal house cup, but rather than a cup, the prize was being Top Lord or Lady Wanker, and Harry would have happily had none of it, but they weren’t making it easy for him. Rank was everything in Slytherin. And with a constant fluctuation in ranks, everyone had to be constantly aware of who were placed at what, or risk being flung to the bottom.

Harry had known bullies all his life, but Dudley and his gang had nothing on the insidious cruelty of the Slytherin House. Although from what Harry had observed over the years, this sort of gang mentality and brutal pecking order was pretty normal for teenagers, but Slytherin’s, being ambitious sods, were of course better at it than the other Houses.

How someone scored owed to various factors, with blood purity being the obvious one that Harry had learnt on day one. But as much as they boasted about it, it seemed blood status alone only counted for so much in Slytherin’s cutthroat hierarchy. Vincent and Gregory were both purebloods, and both of them were also complete morons. Sure, they had brute strength, but physical intimidation was only so useful and it wasn’t exactly subtle, something that was apparently important despite what massive drama-queens the Slytherins were.

But the lesson Harry learned over and over was that Slytherins weren’t joking when they called themselves the house of the cunning and ambitious. They prided themselves on their cunning and their ambition, and if someone had neither, they were immediately ranked lower on the social ladder like as not. It was ambition over cunning, cunning over cleverness, cleverness over loyalty, and loyalty over bravery. And, they had not so patiently explained over Harry’s first week, courage and loyalty were tricky characteristics, as one must need courage in order to succeed and loyalty from others to achieve their goals, but it can also equate into foolhardiness, impulsiveness, and perseverance – traits that were, the Slytherins sneered, why Gryffindors were so pathetic and stupid and not nearly as good as _their_ house. Slytherins had to know the difference in an objective worth persisting in and one that must be given up as a dud. They also had to know who deserved loyalty, had to be clever enough to know who was worth befriending or supporting, whether to play the long game or go for short term rewards, whether a mistake was irredeemable or fixable – it was enough different social rules to make Harry’s head hurt.

Currently, Harry had about 55 points: 10 as a half-blood with two magical parents, 10 as a first year, 10 because he was deemed moderately clever, another 5 for his good behaviour in classes, and 20 because he was famous. Normally first years ranked quite low initially, as they were considered variables, with their true worth and character to be determined more solidly in the years to come. Even though Harry was unusually high because of the added bonus of fame boosting him up, he was nowhere near the top in his year. Clever and talented purebloods always came first in Slytherin. Even as he snorted at how stupid the point system was, in all honesty, Harry was just happy he wasn't coming last.

That honour went, unsurprisingly, to Granger.

As a muggleborn she got minus points, something that, the others had gleefully pointed out at every opportunity, had never ever happened before in Slytherin. Granger had responded to that by dominating each class by answering every question the teacher posed and even succeeding in their first spells right off the bat, already earning several house points from the teachers. Despite her apparent disdain, Granger had looked smug when, after some furious debate, the older students had deemed her worthy for a 4-point score. Measly though it was, by some unwritten law, this had been enough for the other first years to get the go ahead and slightly dial back their bullying and absorb her into ‘The House’.

Which was the problem for Harry. At least with Granger there had been someone else to be outside the system, standing with him in solidarity against the stupidity of the collective Slytherin clique. But they hadn’t even got to Friday before she’d somehow won their reluctant admiration and acceptance, even if she was still a mudblood stain on their noble House. But Harry was never given the chance to stand apart from the group. He was absorbed into their group from the get-go, whether he liked it or not.

Having gone to school with Dudley all his life had ensured Harry had never had any real friends, and his understanding of friendship groups was admittedly spotty, but he was sure the way the Slytherins approached friendships were not the norm – somehow everyone was kinda sorta friends with everyone. Pansy Parkinson had explained with a patronising smile that this ensured that if any one of them turned out to be successful in the future, everyone else would be at least friendly acquaintances with them. “It’s not who _you_ are, Harry, it’s who you _are_ ,” she explained to him, as if, Harry thought with exasperation, what she said had any actual meaning. Especially since this big group of ‘friendly acquaintances’ still somehow managed to also have everything from petty revenge to fierce interpersonal vendettas. “It’s just like one big happy, dysfunctional family,” Tracy Davis had said cheerfully. “You all stick together even when you hate each other. It’s like, pack bond mentality, or whatever.” At least Harry was perfecting the art of nodding along to this drivel.

But that was just it, even though it was all drivel, he just couldn’t escape it. And even more annoyingly, he didn’t really want to.

All his life he’d gone friendless, but somehow Harry had been thrust into a large group of people who tolerated his presence, not only speaking to him in a nice fashion with minimal snide comments, but who also seemed to not mind being around him, and he, well, simply put he had absolutely no idea how to deal with it.

He was perceptive enough to know that they didn’t particularly care about him beyond whatever weirdo house hierarchy dictated they do, but worst of all, despite all his reservations about Slytherin, Harry actually found himself enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by people who actually bothered to talk and listen to him – he even allowed himself in the darkest part of his mind to think that, getting past all the blood purity stuff, they could be potential friends. Though perhaps saying they were potential friends was an exaggeration, because Malfoy was _definitely_ never going to be his friend (more like mortal enemy), the girls were busy working out the hierarchy between _them_ , Blaise Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle were utterly uninterested in the drama of the class, and Granger was such a bossy know-it-all who didn't seem the slightest bit interested in any of them outside of proving herself as the smartest in the class. So no, not really anywhere close to being friends, but their acceptance was enough that Harry didn’t feel completely miserable.

But here at Hogwarts, away from Dudley, away from his baggy hand-me-down clothes and freaky reputation, Harry had really hoped he could make a real friend.

Which was the reason Friday was an important day, a moment Harry had been hoping for and dreading all week. They had Double Potions with the Gryffindors, and it would be the first time Harry would get a chance to talk to Ron since the Sorting without the prying eyes of the whole school on them.

He’d naively been under the assumption that Potions would be a good opportunity where he could talk to Ron once more, and it seemed from the smiles they’d shared across the dining hall at dinner on Thursday, that Ron had much the same idea. This hope was swiftly crushed when Daphne Greengrass’ older sister Thalia the Prefect came back to the common room raging at Percy Weasley.

“Upstart blood-traitor as the audacity to order _me_ about!” she’d snarled, throwing herself onto a chaise lounge, pouting theatrically as her friends comforted her by recounting every horrible thing they’d ever heard or suspected about Percy Weasley.

Harry didn’t need to know the ins and outs of pureblood society to know that being a ‘blood traitor’ wasn’t a good thing. “Weasleys, blood traitors, the lot of them,” Malfoy had hissed as they clambered into bed that night. Even as Harry dragged his curtains across to indicate end of discussion, Malfoy, as usual continued unperturbed. “Good thing the blood traitors are all off in Gryffindor. Wouldn’t be caught dead paling around with someone like _that_. Not unless I wanted everyone to think _I_ was one too.”

Harry punched his pillow into shape, wishing it was a certain someone’s face. But it didn’t change anything. There were only two options –talk to Ron and rekindle their friendship, or remain on 55 points and keep on speaking terms with his housemates by blanking Ron.

During breakfast, Harry could practically feel the eyes of his fellow Slytherins drilling into him, waiting for him to take his stance on the proverbial battlefield between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Even Granger seemed tense, although that may have simply been because it was the first lesson of a new subject.

The arrival of the post brought a welcome distraction to the evil eyes his classmates were giving him.

Hedwig had been visiting him every day, nibbling on his toast and giving his ear an affectionate nip, but today she landed in front of him and dropped a letter onto his plate. Wondering who on earth it was from, Harry tore it open at once.

" ** _Dear Harry,_**

**_I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig._ **

**_Hagrid"_ **

Harry was just about to reply when the note was snatched from his grasp. He looked up to see Malfoy smirking at him across the table. Somehow, by some petty unspoken agreement, Harry and Malfoy had made a point to sit directly across from one another at meals, the better to throw a venomous glare or two at each other with a sprinkle of shin kicking.

"Who's sent you a letter, Potter?" he drawled, unfolding the letter with a flourish.

"Give it back!" Harry snatched desperately for the note but Malfoy simply leant backwards out of reach. His grey eyes widened as he read.

Harry felt his ears burn. Malfoy had been receiving sweets and the like from home nearly every day, something he would pointedly rub in Harry's face. Harry could just imagine how Malfoy would hold this over him; he'd already made his opinion of the gamekeeper clear at Diagon Alley.

Malfoy let out a sharp laugh. " _Tea_? With that great oaf? Merlin, Potter, are you really that desperate for company, or do you just like befriending half-wits?" He glanced openly over to the Gryffindor table.

Harry stood angrily, a wave of fury rising in him at Malfoy’s barbs. He didn't need any reminders of his budding friendship with Ron, not today when it could possibly be all over. "Don't you dare say that about Hagrid!" he snarled, ignoring the looks this attracted from the rest of the table. "You don't know anything about him, Malfoy! Hagrid's really cool and interesting, which is more than I can say about _you_."

Malfoy flushed pink and Harry took the opportunity to snatch back his letter. "Yes, please, I'll see you later," he spoke aloud for Malfoy’s benefit as he scrawled his answer on the back.

As Hedwig took off again, Harry and Malfoy were locked in a silent battle of wills, staring one another down, not even looking away when the others resumed talking. Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy as Zabini stole the kippers from his plate. Malfoy glared back, not breaking eye contact as he passed the syrup to Crabbe.

“Boys,” Parkinson said with exasperation, rolling her eyes.

 

 

 

It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because Potions turned out to be a disaster.

It seemed that Harry needn't have worried about finding an opportunity to talk to Ron, because he never even got the chance to approach him. By some telepathic hivemind the other Slytherins all seemed to have, as soon as they entered the dungeons Harry found himself immediately flanked on all sides, herding him towards the left side of the class. The Gryffindors were already there, Ron sitting beside the round-faced boy from the train who had lost his toad.

The unified front of the Slytherins didn't go unnoticed, and Harry was sure that it was for the benefit of Ron. He'd stood slightly in his seat when Harry had arrived, but as soon as he noticed Harry's royally annoying guard, Ron’s eager smile faded.

Harry was steered to an empty bench, sandwiched between Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, apparently unphased at the amused looks the Gryffindors were sending them. One of them, an Indian girl, turned to her friend and whispered something to her. They both glanced over their shoulder at Harry and giggled loudly.

Heat crept up his neck; he hated all of this strange attention, and the Slytherins acting even stranger wasn’t helping his frayed nerves. Although he suspected that they weren’t giggling at his bodyguards, when the two girls openly pointed at his forehead, before breaking out into more giggles. Harry flattened his fringe. For the past ten years, he been totally ignored, and suddenly having people know his name at a glance made him immensely uncomfortable. He used to love his scar, but it was becoming a nuisance when everyone stared at it all the damn time.

Behind the two girls, Ron was still half-off his seat, eyes darting back and forth across the room, before he promptly stood, and determinedly made his way over towards Harry. Immediately, both Greengrass and Zabini tensed and shifted closer.

In a strange way, Harry felt touched by their protectiveness, which was annoying when he was trying to be irritated that they were interfering. The gesture seemed to throw Ron, who faltered slightly before he stopped in front of their desk.

"Er, hullo Harry" he stammered, glancing nervously at Crabbe and Goyle, who were both watching the redhead intently with matching frowns.

This was it: the moment of truth. Was Harry going to be nice to Ron, someone whom he liked immensely but apparently could never be friends with now that they were in opposing houses without being totally ostracised by all of Slytherin? Or would he do the stupid cowardly thing and buckle under peer pressure for people who only really liked him for his fame?

"Weasley," he greeted neutrally, even as the words felt leaden on his tongue.

As Ron's face fell, Harry felt a painful shard lodge itself in his chest over losing the first friend he'd ever had.

Ron stood there looking torn, his mouth slightly open as though he wished to something more, but Zabini butted in. "Is there something you wanted, _Weasley_?" he asked coldly, disdain dripping from every syllable.

Ron jerked back in surprise at the tone, before glaring at Zabini. "Nothing from _you,_ " he snapped fiercely, but Greengrass took the opportunity to join in.

"Well if all you wanted to do was get close to some _real_ wizards, congratulations, you've succeeded," she purred, her voice like ice. "So off you run back with the rest of those mutts like a good dog and stop sniffing around your betters. Go on, shoo, you little mongrel."

Ron looked flabbergasted at their rudeness, his face turning a blotchy purple, and for a moment he looked like he was seriously contemplating hitting her, when Professor Snape strode in.

"Sit," Professor Snape snapped at Ron, who flinched and hurried back to his seat, while the Slytherins laughed, barking like dogs at him as he went.

Harry forced himself to look only to the front of the class as the lesson began, eyes glued to Professor Snape, aware of the pale, pointed face grinning smugly at him from the corner of his vision. He blinked at the slight prickle in his eyes.

‘You see,’ Harry told himself firmly, 'That's how it is now.’


	2. Halloween!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, Theodore Nott doesn't exist in this timeline. He went to Durmstrung or whatever.

Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than Dudley, but that was before he’d met Draco Malfoy.

Even though Dudley was a spoilt prat, he was thick as a bag of bricks. It made insulting him easy enough, even if any barb Harry threw at his cousin would inevitably result in a bout of ‘Harry Hunting’. His aunt and uncle had never cared for him the way they cared for Dudley, and they’d made that abundantly clear that this made him inferior in some way, but given how unpleasant the Dursleys were, Harry didn’t feel too bad about this. He had never been exceptionally smart or talented, with his oversized clothes and the strange occurrences marking him as freaky troublemaker by his peers and teachers, but Harry had always assumed things would change from the better once he was a legal adult and able to escape the Dursleys forever.

Finding out he was a wizard just meant he didn’t have to wait until he turned eighteen to try and show everyone what he was made of, even if he wasn’t too sure what that might be exactly. But he could probably figure it out soon enough, and then he’d dazzle them all.

The only problem was Malfoy.

Spoilt prat he may be, but Malfoy was not stupid blonde pig like dear Duddykins. The first week of lessons had proved that Malfoy was clever enough, even if he wasn’t as much of a know-it-all as Granger, and he was well liked by the Slytherins and by his teachers, apparently mastering the appearance of an earnest and friendly student that adults adored and the self-confident strutting that other students seemingly respected rather than loathed.

Malfoy was a bully, a nasty little so-and-so that was spoilt and cruel to everyone, as well as openly revelling in the knowledge and power of having everything he could ever want – and Harry was unbearably jealous of him.

It was stupid, so stupid, because there was nothing likable about Malfoy at all, but even so… Even so, Harry couldn’t help but look at him and think of every Christmas, every birthday when Harry would have to sit and watch Dudley tear into his mountain of presents, his parents gushing over him as Harry was completely ignored.

But Harry got his small victories. The tea with Hagrid after Double Potions had been a perfect opportunity to rile Malfoy, sweetly responding to his taunts about the groundskeeper by prattling admiringly over Hagrid’s lovely cooking and hilarious jokes, and overblown tales of the Forbidden Forest, how he’d heard werewolf howls right outside the door. Malfoy was pale and subdued after _that_ little story, and Harry had got to inwardly gloat as Malfoy tried to insult Hagrid a few more time to no response. Until he switched targets to Ron. Harry was immediately so furious words escaped him and he stormed off to the dorms halfway through dinner and refused to acknowledge Malfoy for the whole weekend. Luckily this clued Harry in on a new tactic to deal with Malfoy, who was so infuriated by being ignored he eventually began snapping at everyone, until he made the mistake of insulting Gemma Farley the sixth year Prefect and receiving a public dressing down in the middle of the Common Room.

But Harry was currently paying him attention as he swore loudly over breakfast on Monday morning. Crabbe had had to seize the back of Harry's robes when he launched himself at Malfoy, who was laughing so hard he seemed unable to breath. He was still employing some of Uncle Vernon's juiciest curses, clawing in the direction of Malfoy’s stupid face, when he heard a cold voice behind him.

"What's going on here, Potter?"

Blanching, Harry turned to find the black eyes of Professor Snape glaring down at him. After their first Potions lesson, Harry had gotten the distinct impression that Snape disliked him. Of course, Snape seemed to dislike most of his students, but there had been a definite animosity directed towards Harry throughout the lesson. Since then, he'd been shrinking away whenever he came near his head of house, hiding behind the others in an effort not to attract Snape's ire.

"My teacup bit me, Professor," Harry said, trying not to feel silly by his own words, but as a warm trickle made its way over his lips, all of his fury rose once more. He shot Malfoy a venomous glance, who was shaking with quiet laughter.

Snape eyed his bleeding nose, before picking up the aforementioned cup. His dark eyes roved the cup before he said quietly, "A Nose-Biting Teacup, I believe." Fixing Harry with an unpleasant smile, Snape continued, "However, a mere joke item is no reason for that foul language during breakfast, nor any attempts to harm your fellow classmates. I expect you'll remember that, or next time I will be forced to deduct points from my own house, understand?"

"But sir-"

"I said," Snape's voice going dangerously soft, " _Understand_ , Potter?"

"Yes, sir," muttered Harry sulkily, and Snape swept away. The rest of the table, having watched the display with unconcealed glee like the jackals they are, resumed their conversations. Malfoy had had to bit into his knuckles to keep quiet as Harry was lectured, but free once more he burst out laughing as Harry sat back down, humiliated.

"Poor Harry," Greengrass crooned, leaning over to wipe the blood off of his chin. "That silly teacup damaged your pretty face."

Harry blushed, but when Malfoy choked at the comment, he channelled his inner Dudley and put on his best puppy-dog face, biting his lip and looking up through his fringe. "Will it- will it scar? I don't think I can handle another one on my face." It was laying it on a bit thick, but watching Dudley work Aunt Petunia, he figured girls ate this kind of thing up.

It worked, because immediately the girls began to fuss over him, showering him with assurances and informing him that scars were "macho". Malfoy looked furious.

Harry inwardly smiled. It seemed he was finally getting the hang of this whole Slytherin business.

 

 

 

There was a notice pinned up in the common room. First years would be receiving flying lessons, starting Thursday.

Harry was ecstatic. He'd been looking forward to learning how to fly more than anything else, and even facing the awkwardness of learning to fly in the same class as Ron couldn't damper his spirits. He and Zabini chatted about it all the way to lunch, with Zabini telling him about his few times flying on holidays in Italy.

His good mood continued until Bulstrode asked him curiously what he was so happy about. As soon as the words "flying lessons" left his mouth, that good mood ended. Malfoy's head shot up, and he immediately began regale them all with tales of his own flying finesse. This was something Harry had completely forgotten.

Malfoy talked about flying a lot. He complained loudly about first-years never getting in the house Quidditch teams and told long, boastful stories which always seemed to end with him narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters. This particular ending only stopped being included when Harry pointed out that if he kept almost crashing into helicopters as often as he said, maybe he wasn't so good after all.

Granger was almost as anxious about flying as Harry was, though for different reasons. This was something you couldn't learn off by heart out of a book – not that she hadn't tried. Davis was the only other who had never flown before – her mother was extremely overprotective of her – but when she told Granger this to reassure her, Granger immediately turned around and bored them all stupid by spouting annoying little facts from _Quidditch through the Ages_ , a library book she'd borrowed.

By Thursday morning, Harry was so nervous and excited that he was unable to eat anything. While Greengrass attempted to coax him into eating something ("You can't afford to skip meals Bambi," she sniffed, nudging the pancakes towards him, "You're too skinny as it is!"), Zabini gleefully described all of the flying horror stories he'd ever heard. Only after a particularly nasty tale involving a wizard and a jet engine did Parkinson turn on him, furiously telling him to shut it before he turned them all off breakfast.

“Queenie, look!” Parkinson said, nudging Greengrass in the ribs. “That stupid ginger means to start something.” Harry frowned, following their gaze across the hall. Malfoy was at the Gryffindor table, smirking at a snarling Ron. Until Professor McGonagall appeared, towering over him. Neville Longbottom, the round-faced boy from the train, had his hand outstretched.

"What's going on?"

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor," cried Longbottom. Malfoy scowled, dropping it back on the table.

"Just looking," he said, sloping away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

When he sat down at the Slytherin table, Malfoy's furious expression warned everyone not to broach the subject, but Harry felt his skin prickle ominously. The dark glower on Malfoy’s face could mean nothing good.

 

 

 

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry and the other Slytherins trooped down the front steps into the grounds for their first flying lesson.

They arrived at a smooth lawn opposite of the Forbidden Forest, where twenty broomsticks were lying in neat lines on the ground. The Gryffindors hadn't arrived yet.

Malfoy seemed to have shaken off his bad mood from earlier as he sidled over to Harry with a smirk. "Scared you'll fall off the broom, Potter?" he asked, shouldering into Harry’s side.

"Nope, not at all, not a tiny bit," Harry’s voice catching on the last syllable.

"Leave Bambi alone Draco," chastised Greengrass, who smiled at Harry. "Save it for the Gryffindors."

Malfoy frowned. "I'll leave Potter alone when you stop calling him that ridiculous nickname," he said venomously. "Honestly, stop babying him, the way you treat him is pathetic."

Greengrass flushed crimson. "I'm not _babying_ him!" snapped, her voice rising in pitch.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, sneering at her. "Mooning over the famous Boy-Who-Lived are we? Only been a week and already you've pulled out the pet names; you sure like to move _fast_ , huh?"

She blushed so hard it was surprising her skin didn't slough right off. Harry couldn't believe Malfoy would be so mean as to reduce a girl almost to tears, but he didn't say a word. It may only be his second week in Slytherin, but he'd grown up around Dudley, who may not have been as smart as Malfoy, but the intention was the same. He could recognise a power play when he saw one.

Besides, her fussing over him all the time was beginning to get unbearable. The puppy-dog eyes were too strong for his own good.

Greengrass opened her mouth, glancing aside at the other girls for backup. Parkinson resolutely looked away, and neither Davis nor Bulstrode could help her – they were only half-bloods.

Squaring her shoulders, she glared hard at Malfoy. "Whatever," she snarled, whipping her hair over her shoulders as she marched away.

Malfoy shrugged but didn't move away, instead shooting smug looks to Harry, who was puzzling over what had just happened. Clearly Malfoy felt that the only one with any control of Harry should be himself, but why on earth was he being so domineering? Surely it didn't matter if Greengrass fawned over him or not. Or was he jealous? Did he like her? She certainly was pretty, but that still didn't explain why he was so mean to her.

He was thankful when the Gryffindors arrived, followed by their teacher Madam Hooch, who, with her short grey hair and yellow eyes, vaguely resembled Malfoy's eagle owl.

When they were all instructed to stand beside a broom, Harry was once again frustrated to see Malfoy had deliberately chose the one beside him.

Once they were all in position, Madam Hooch barked from the front, "Stick your right hand over your broom and say, "Up!"

"UP!" everyone shouted.

Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, and he smirked triumphantly at Malfoy. But he also had his broom in hand and merely raised two silvery eyebrows. Harry flushed, turning back to the front. He was pleased to note that others' brooms hadn't done the same; Granger's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville Longbottom's hadn't moved at all.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end ("Luckily for you Potter," Malfoy muttered out the corner of his mouth), and walked up and down the rows, correcting their grips. Harry was delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years.

Then it was finally time. They were only going to fly a few feet off the ground at first, but it was still _flying_! This was it, what he'd been waiting for since he'd seen the brooms at Diagon Alley. His heart thundering in his chest, Harry shifted his grip, unable to quell his anticipation. Malfoy met his eyes, but he only gave him a slight smile before turning back to the front. Harry's heart stuttered. It was only the smallest uplift of pale lips, but suddenly Harry felt a hundred times better, a thousand times more confident. It was okay; he was going to be fine.

He wiped his sweaty hands on his robes and bent his knees, mimicking Malfoy's position, waiting for Madam Hooch's whistle.

"Three – two –"

But Longbottom, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Longbottom was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle – twelve feet – twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slide sideways off the broom and –

WHAM – a thud and a nasty crack and Longbottom lay face down on the grass in a heap.

For a moment, Harry was sure Longbottom was dead, but then Madam Hooch, bending over him, muttered, "Broken wrist," and helping him to his feet, turned to the rest of the class.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'! Come on, dear."

With her arm around him, Madam Hooch led Longbottom away, clutching his wrist as tears ran down his round cheeks.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins bar Harry and Granger joined in, Greengrass's voice highest of them all as she glanced at Malfoy. Harry simply rolled his eyes. And just when he though Malfoy wasn't _totally_ evil.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil, the giggly dark-skinned Gryffindor girl.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Parkinson with glee. "Never thought _you'd_ like fat little cry-babies, Parvati. Even if he is a pureblood, Longbottom's got the talent of a Squib, you'd be better off with someone with more talent."

Patil scowled, "Like I need advice from a slimy Slytherin."

Parkinson tossed her black bob with a contemptuous sneer. "You should Parvati," she said, smiling indulgently, "You ended up a lowly Gryffindor, at least Padma got Ravenclaw. She's obviously the brighter one, as _she's_ not wasting her time chasing after losers. So much for being identical."

Patil started forward, hands curling into claws, but her brown-haired friend Lavender Brown linked arms with her, tugging her back to whisper maliciously in her ear. Parkinson simply turned to the other girls and said loudly, " _Gryffindors,_ all bark and no bite," and they all giggled.

"Look!" said Malfoy suddenly, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

Harry groaned. "What are you going to do with that, Malfoy?" he asked exasperatedly, inwardly hoping Madam Hooch would hurry up so they could get on with the lesson.

Malfoy smiled nastily. "Do you want to fly, Potter?" he asked slyly. Harry immediately perked up at the word _fly_. "How about a little Quidditch lesson while we wait?" And without further ado, Malfoy leapt onto his broomstick and took off. He hadn't been lying, he _could_ fly well – hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!" waving the arm holding the Remembrall.

 _That_ was a challenge, no mistaking it. Blood roared in his ears, and Harry felt his vision narrow. He had to show up Malfoy, that was all there was to it.

Harry grabbed his broom.

"No!" shouted Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move – you'll get us all into trouble."

Harry ignored her, and no one else offered any word of protest as he mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground.

Up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair and his robes whipped out behind him – and in a rush of fierce joy he realised he'd found something he could do without being taught – this was easy, this was _wonderful_. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from a boy.

He turned the broomstick sharply until he was facing Malfoy. Another blast of delight: Malfoy was looking stunned and a little impressed. Smoothing his face into a blank stare, he nodded at Harry. "Very nice, Potter" he said, soft enough that those below wouldn't have heard. Harry raised a challenging eyebrow in return.

"Now let's see," said Malfoy, raising his voice, "Just what you're made of. Catch it if you can!" and with no warning threw the glass ball high into the air.

Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall. He leant forward and pointed his broom handle down – next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball – wind whistled in his ear, mingled with the screams of people watching – he stretched out his hand – a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently on to the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

Facing the sky, Harry could see Malfoy staring down at him, his face white and eyes and mouth comically round. Then the blue sky disappeared as what felt like every single Slytherin girl flung herself on top of him. Davis was sobbing into his chest, Greengrass and Parkinson were screaming over and over how amazing and _stupid_ that was (to his dismay, Parkinson was now also calling him "Bambi"), Bulstrode gushed over the catch, and Granger, white-lipped and scowling, reminded him angrily that he had explicitly ignored Madam Hooch, which Harry took as a sign of her worry over him, as he seemed intent on lecturing him thoroughly, shouting over the others to be heard.

"Relax, Granger," said Malfoy, alighting gracefully, "No harm done." He was looking at Harry up and down as though to confirm his statement, and for a second Harry wondered if Malfoy had been _worried_ about him, but when he raised his head, all that was on his face was jealousy and a strange hungry look that made Harry shiver despite the Autumn sun.

 

 

 

After dinner that night, Harry was accosted by a group of intimidating older Slytherin boys outside the entrance door. The Slytherin Quidditch captain Marcus Flint, a tall, muscular boy with shifty grey eyes stepped forward and almost snapped Harry's fingers in a crushing handshake.

"Saw that catch of yours today, Potter" he growled, eyeing Harry curiously. "Wouldn't have believed it possible if I hadn't seen it for myself. That was some slick flying, especially for a first year."

"Ever play Quidditch before, Potter?" asked Peregrine Derrick, a red-haired boy who stood beside the familiar figure of Terence Higgs.

"Er, no, never," said Harry, flummoxed.

"Who cares if he's played before," barked Adrian Pucey. "He was fucking _amazing_!" He let out a booming guffaw.

"Are you going to try out for the team, Potter?" Flint said whilst shooting an annoyed look at the third year, who shut his mouth with a snap.

Harry was so startled he could barely spit out a reply, and stammered, "N-no, well, I didn’t really, well, wasn't intending on –"

"We need a Chaser," interrupted Flint, "Tryouts are on Sunday after breakfast. You'll have to borrow one of the school brooms; first years aren't allowed their own. Don’t be late, Potter, I want to put you through your paces."

And on that note, he left, the rest of the boys trailing after him.

Crabbe and Goyle arrived a quarter of an hour later to find Harry was still standing outside the common room entrance, his mouth open.

"Did you forget the password too?” Goyle asked sadly.

Despite being bullied into it, Harry could not complain when it came to Quidditch. Learning the rules by the time of the tryouts was tricky enough as is, without his feeling so nervous and the pressure the Slytherin team was putting on him. He needn't have worried; somehow, he managed to outfly everyone else at tryouts, which admittedly were only two others, and Marcus Flint casually announced him as the new Chaser with, what could be called at a stretch, glee.

So perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch practice three evenings a week in top of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it when he realised that he'd already been at Hogwarts two months. The castle felt more like home than Privet Drive had ever done.

On Halloween morning, Harry awoke to the delicious smell of baked pumpkin and the sound of shrill screaming. He sat up, alarmed, noticing the other boys doing the same, and tumbled out of bed as they all scrambled out the door to see what was going on.

Reaching the common room, they were greeted with a disgusting stench and a gaggle of sixth year boys paralysed with laughter, clutching the leather armchairs to remain upright as they pointed at Granger, who was being attacked by what at first appeared to be a flock of strange birds, but as Harry stepped closer, he realised they were in fact paint brushes, which were viciously slathering Granger in a foul-smelling substance.

"Stop it!" he yelled angrily at the sixth years who were now struggling for breath as Granger tried in vain to fend off the brushes. "I said, STOP!" he thundered, drawing his wand and pointing it at the nearest boy.

That certainly got their attention, and at once they stopped laughing, now glaring at Harry.

"We were teaching this filthy mudblood her place is all" said one of them, looking wholly unconcerned at Harry brandishing his wand. Probably because they were both aware Harry’s repertoire of offensive spells was limited to shooting sparks from his wand.

The one closest to Harry sneered, "And besides, little firstie, why in Merlin's name should any of us listen to you? Whachu gonna do? Turn a match into a needle for us? Do you need paint job too?" He twirled his wand meaningfully.

Immediately Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, rubbing their knuckles menacingly. They were almost as tall as the older boys, and easily wider, which made the sixth years fall back slightly, eyeing them warily.

"What's this?" a voice drawled from behind Harry. Malfoy stepped up casually beside Goyle, looking bored. "Picking on a first year? How pathetic." One of the older boys flushed.

"Pathetic! That mudblood dares to walk around here like she owns the place, talking like she knows more than we do," spat one of them, glaring at Malfoy challengingly. "Reminding a mudblood that they're nothing but scum is just a common courtesy; they're known for being a bit slow."

Malfoy's lip curled in disdain as he eyed them. "You're one to talk about being slow, Warrington," he said coolly, "Didn't you only get two O.W.L.s? I'm surprised you're even here this year, if it was me, I'd be ashamed to show my face."

Sniggers broke around the room as Warrington's face purpled with fury and humiliation, but he seemed reluctant to attack Malfoy and fumed in silence. One of the others rolled his eyes and with a wave of his wand the brushes disappeared. "Relax, Malfoy," he said, reaching out to grasp Warrington's arm. "Just reminding the mudblood that her foul face is stinking up the place." With that, he and his friends left the common room roaring with laughter, dragging a still fuming Warrington behind them.

Granger was left standing alone in the middle of the room, covered head to toe in the thick sludge that was slowly oozing onto the floor with sickening splats.

Davis sighed and held out her arm to Granger but didn't move closer. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up before breakfast," she said, her nose wrinkling.

At once, a gaggle of seventh year girls moved in front of the entrance to the girl's dorms, blocking the way. Greengrass's older sister Thalia the Prefect scowled at them. "No way am I letting that filthy mudblood in there, she'll stink up the whole place!"

"Sis!" hissed Greengrass, “Don’t make a scene. Just let her in, alright?”

Estelle Pucey sneered. “She’ll use up all the hot water, the amount of time it’ll take to get the stink of her dirty blood off. Go use the hall lavs instead.”

Before anyone else could respond, Granger howled in embarrassment and fled out the entrance door, tears streaming down her face.

Granger didn't turn up for the morning's classes, and at lunch Bulstrode reported that she'd locked herself in the girls' toilets and wanted to be left alone.

On their way, up to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry tried suggesting to the girls on maybe fetching Granger, thinking she'd be hungry by then, but Parkinson merely rolled her eyes and muttered "Just let her cry it out." He wanted to argue, but Greengrass had shot him a warning look, so he let it be, pushing aside his concern.

Harry was just helping himself to a jacket potato when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the Hall, his purple turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table and gasped, "Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know."

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

There was uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately."

"But our dormitory is in the dungeons!" shouted Greengrass, terrified, but the Slytherins were already moving off and they all had no choice but to follow, hands on wands just in case.

As he jostled his way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry froze, and then suddenly darted out behind them, shuffling close behind them until he could slip unnoticed into a side corridor that looked deserted, only to jump as a hand clamped around his arm.

Malfoy pulled him around, looking flustered and cross. "What in Merlin's name are you doing, Potter?" he hissed. "Have you been Confunded? The dorms are in the _other_ direction!"

"Gee thanks, Malfoy, I had _no_ idea," said Harry sarcastically, shaking his arm free and turning back down the empty corridor.

This time Malfoy grabbed the back of Harry's robes and pulled hard. "Stupid git! There's a troll in the school, or has your stupid brain shrunk even more?"

Wrenching his robes away, Harry spun, startling Malfoy with the fury in his face. "In case _you've_ forgotten," he snarled coldly, "Granger's locked in the toilets. She doesn't know about the troll."

He turned and hurried up the deserted corridor. To his surprise, Malfoy followed him. "And why then," he pointed out in exasperation as Harry peered around a corner, "Did you not simply inform a prefect or teacher of this?"

Harry step faltered slightly before he continued walking determinedly. "The prefects wouldn't help her, you saw what happened this morning, and the teachers are busy dealing with the troll," he replied, wishing his voice didn't sound so defensive.

Malfoy snorted, grumbling under his breath but followed after Harry nonetheless. It was as they were creeping along the next corridor that Malfoy suddenly held up a hand.

"Can you smell something?"

Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean. "Smells like we've found, Granger," Malfoy said maliciously, but then Harry clamped a hand over his mouth, pressing a finger to his lips.

They listened wide eyed as the silence of the corridor was broken by something. And then they heard it – a low grunting and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. At the end of the passage something huge was moving towards them.

Malfoy clutched Harry's arm, his pale face turning paler with terror, and together they backed noiselessly into the shadows, feeling their way to the end of the hallway, neither one able to take their eyes off of the troll as it shambled down the corridor. Suddenly pain arched up Harry's elbow as Malfoy stumbled, knocking him into the wall, and he was unable to hold back a pained gasp.

Both of them froze as the troll stopped next to a doorway halfway down the hallway, but then it turned and peered inside. It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, and then slouched slowly into the room. Malfoy instantly sagged with relief, turning to go, but Harry stood, frowning.

"The keys in the lock," Harry muttered as Malfoy tugged his arm, "We could lock it in."

"Or we could run like crazy the other way," whispered Malfoy, his voice slightly higher than usual. "The other way meaning in the opposite direction of the freaking mountain troll. It's the less suicidal option I know, but hey, I'm a survival enthusiast."

Half dragging Harry away, they had just reached the end of the corridor when they heard something that made their hearts stop – a high, petrified, and all too familiar scream.

"The toilets!" said Malfoy, pale as the Bloody Baron.

"Granger!" Harry shouted, wheeling around and sprinting back down the hallway, skidding to a halt against the toilet stalls.

Granger was shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

Harry desperately seized a tap and threw it as hard as he could against the wall. The troll stopped a few feet from Granger. It lumbered around; blinking stupidly to see what had made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club as it went.

Harry backed away, eyes on the troll as he Malfoy darted inside. He glanced at Harry, then at Granger, and seemed to decide to face the lesser of two evils. "Come on, run!" he yelled at Granger, trying to drag her towards the door, but she couldn't move, she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open with terror.

The shouting had made the troll falter and it turned back to them; then it roared and went for them instead.

Harry then did something that was both very brave and very stupid: he took a great running jump and managed to fasten his arms around the troll's neck from behind. The troll couldn't feel Harry hanging there, but it certainly heard him when Harry drew a deep breath and then bellowed as loudly as he could directly into its pointed ear.

Howling in pain and confusion, the troll twisted and flailed, waving its club madly, with Harry clinging on for dear life.

"Do something!" he yelled at Malfoy, who was watching the scene open mouthed. Granger had sunk to the floor in fright.

Malfoy drew his wand, unsure what he should do, but then Harry lost his grip and flew off, colliding hard with the floor and yelling in pain. The troll immediately turned on him, raising its club high to strike the source of its agony.

"DURO!" Malfoy screamed, madly waving his wand. A jet of silver-grey light bust from his wand and hit the troll square in the face.

For a long moment, it looked as though it hadn't worked.

But then with loud cracks, the grey spread from where the spell hit, engulfing the trolls head. With a creaking groan, the thick flesh hardened, stiffened, as its head slowly turned into stone. With a deafening bang, the spell was complete, but now, with a head of stone, the troll’s body began to sway, until with a thunderous crash, it fell.

Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of breath, but he didn't take his eyes from Malfoy, who still had his wand raised, looking baffled at what he'd done.

It was Granger was at last broke the silence. "Is it – dead?"

Her voice broke Malfoy from his daze. "I don't know," he admitted, lowering his wand. "My father taught me that spell; he always said I had a knack for Transfiguration, but I- I may have overdone it. It’s not supposed to work on living things."

"Well that,” Harry said shakily, “was bloody _amazing_." Malfoy’s pale cheeks flooded with colour.

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the three of them look up. They hadn't realised what a racket they had been making, but of course, someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and the troll's roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

"What – what on earth? What were all of you thinking?" said Professor McGonagall, her lips white, cold fury in her voice as she looked from Harry to Malfoy. "Why aren't you both in your dormitory? You're lucky you weren't killed."

Professor Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked at the floor.

Malfoy shuffled his feet and muttered under his breath, "Had to come".

McGonagall glanced sharply at him. "And pray tell why that is?"

A small voice came out of the shadows.

"Please, Professor McGonagall – they were looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

Granger had managed to get to her feet at last. "I wasn’t feeling well, so I wasn’t at the feast. And, well, if they hadn't found me, I'd be dead by now. Harry confused the troll, then Malfoy tried to turn it into stone. They didn't have time to come fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived." She finished by hanging her head in shame.

Harry was speechless. Granger was the last person to do anything against the rules, and here she was, pretending she had and telling a downright lie to a teacher to get them out of trouble. Apparently, McGonagall was rendered incapable of speech as well, and she turned helplessly to Snape, who was eyeing them all with a blank face.

"Miss Granger," he said softly, "In the future, the Hospital Wing is where you should go should you feel unwell. Return to your common room immediately." Granger nodded, scurrying away with her head still bowed.

"As for the two of you," he continued, and Harry held his breath, awaiting the worst. There was an agonising pause. "As long as you keep this incident quiet, I see no reason to punish you both. Return to the common room."

They didn't need a clearer dismissal, both of them barely agreeing before they fled the room. Not a word was said between them, but both Harry and Malfoy understood that no punishment was as good as 50 points from Snape.

Granger was standing by the Slytherin entrance, waiting for them. Not quite meeting their eyes, she quietly mumbled, "Thanks."

There was a very embarrassed pause.

Malfoy sighed. "Thanks back, Granger."

"Hermione," she corrected, beaming at them. "After that, I think we've all moved past calling one another by our surnames."

"We're not friends now, Granger" said Malfoy, looking alarmed.

"Uh huh," hummed Hermione, paying no attention. "So, what will our story be? The truth or what we told the professors?"

"Snape said we're not to tell," Harry supplied, but Malfoy was nodding his head.

"No, we'll have to tell the others, this kind of thing is way too good to pass up," smirked Malfoy. "We should say _you_ lured the troll into a trap Granger, that'll get everyone in a kafuffle."

"Kafuffle?" said Harry, grinning.

"Shut up Potter, someone has to be the brains here" snapped Malfoy.

Harry's grinned only widened. "That'll be Granger then, God knows you don't have any."

" _I'm_ the one who defeated the troll!"

"Only after _I_ took it on, you were just standing there, you lump!"

"And a fat lot of good that did you! You were going to be crushed if it wasn't for me! I'm _obviously_ the hero here, saving that stupid scarred head of yours."

"Hero! You? Who was it quivering like a little mouse about the troll? 'Oh no, let's run away, I'm a great big pounce, trolls are so _scary_.' Ha!"

"It's nice that you were so worried for each other," said Granger thoughtfully, breaking into their bickering.

"I WAS _NOT_!" Harry and Malfoy both shouted as one, but Granger only smiled.

Wrapping an arm around both their necks, she drew the boys close to her sides. "Let's go face the music," she said happily, ignoring their sputtering. "Come on boys!"

As they stepped into the common room to be greeted by questions and shouts and Malfoy eagerly launched into his concocted story, dramatically recreating each moment, Harry realised Granger was right.

There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and taking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them. He was probably going to have to call Malfoy 'Draco' from now on and possibly be nice to him for saving his life from a grisly death by troll. As Malfoy pretended to be Harry flouncing around with supposed terror, Harry weighed up whether death by troll was still an option.


	3. Presents!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long cuz I'm suffering at uni. What am I studying? Why, teaching, of course.

Winter was coming, and more importantly, so was Christmas. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The classrooms and hallways became bitterly cold, and everyone couldn't wait for the holidays to start.

For Harry, this Christmas was looking like it would be his best ever: there had been a sign-up sheet pinned to the noticeboard in the common room for all those wishing to stay for the holidays and Harry immediately added his name, having no desire to return to Privet Drive and certain he and the Dursleys would be happier all round for this fact.

Weirdly, the one who seemed upset was Malfoy upon learning Harry would be staying at Hogwarts.

Since the troll venture, there had been an unspoken agreement between them to move from outright hostility to amicable indifference. In Harry mind, they were certainly not friends, but he supposed they weren’t mortal enemies any longer. Certainly, Malfoy still enjoyed getting under Harry’s skin, and Harry had come to realise he was also petty enough to return the favour with vindictive glee. The rest of the house seemed to approve of their rivalry, nodding approvingly whenever Malfoy pushed Harry to the brink and the subsequent retaliation, insisting that rivalry was very healthy in encouraging ambition. The other first years had initially been uncertain on whether they should interfere or not, now it became a daily source of entertainment, watching leisurely whenever the two began bickering, with only Hermione, as self-appointed overseer of the two, stepping in whenever things got too out of hand.

Fighting was practically the only way they communicated, so it wasn’t until the holidays drew closer that Harry noticed anything amiss.

Malfoy started boasting about his parents' annual Christmas party to the others, apparently one of the year’s social highlights, how Malfoy always gave some thrilling performance of some description. Harry had an absurd image of Malfoy in tights reciting some awful poetry and always had to stuff his fist in his mouth to stop the laughter. Which didn’t go unnoticed, but whenever questioned Harry would instead express his condolences for whoever would have to cope with Malfoy's company. Of course, no insult went unmatched, so Malfoy would turn the argument towards Harry’s pathetic flying abilities, gleefully miming Harry falling off his broom in his first match.

After one too many times of having to hear Malfoy commend Professor Snape for his timely saving of Harry after he was bucked from his broom, Harry had a quiet word with the girls, and after picking up a few tips on decorating spells, made his way into Malfoy’s trunk during lunch. That afternoon’s Charms lessons were unusually rowdy as Malfoy actually lunged at Harry and had to be restrained, trying to keep his face blank as he accepted Professor Flitwick’s scolding and the loss of 2 points for not bringing his textbook. Malfoy spent the evening throwing mutinous looks at Harry as he tried to remove the pink glittery graffiti emblazoning all his books, the words ‘Mrs Malfoy Snape’ and ‘I Heart Severus Snape 4Eva’ glistening under neon pink hearts.

These little spats had started out normal enough, building from a minor insult to an all-out fight that would only end when one of them would storm off, only to be frostily forgiven by the day's end.

But in the week before the holidays, Malfoy had turned downright nasty.

In their final potions class, everyone was discussing their holiday plans, a pleasant enough affair until Malfoy had gotten particularly unpleasant about Harry's lack of a proper family, to which Harry responded by resolutely ignoring him, leaving Malfoy to throw a hissy fit at the lack of attention and instead began to harass the Gryffindors, another of his new favourite pastimes.

Harry glanced up from his work to find Hermione smirking. "What's so funny?" Harry muttered as Malfoy callously laughed when Seamus Finnegan's potion exploded in his face.

Hermione's grin turned lofty, in the I-know-something-you-obviously-don't way that Harry loathed. "You do know why Draco's acting like this, don't you?" she asked in a way that she clearly knew he didn't.

"Because he's a prat?" Harry suggested, measuring out powdered spine of lionfish.

This only served to make Hermione look even smugger. "It's because," she said pompously, adding the stewed horned slugs to her cauldron, "You're staying here for the holidays by yourself. Draco's worried about you."

Harry snorted, "Yeah, I can totally feel all the love he's sending my way," he said sarcastically.

Hermione shrugged, looking exasperated. "You know how he is, he's way too proud to actually show he cares."

"So, what, Malfoy's been all prickly because inwardly he's been sulking because of _me_?"

" _Duh_!" said Hermione, rolling her eyes. ""He's feeling bad because he doesn't want you to be alone for Christmas, and he's upset and defensive _because_ he's feeling bad about it. It's called feeling unjustified guilt."

Harry's mouth fell open. "Why? What? _Why_?"

"It's called ' _unjustified_ guilt' for a reason Harry, but don't worry about him, he's just all insecure because the Weasley's are staying for Christmas too."

"Hmm," Harry glanced at Malfoy who was bullying Neville. He _had_ been very anti-Gryffindor that day and pestering Harry nonstop since breakfast. "Trust Malfoy to get all worked up over nothing," he muttered.

Hermione simply patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Just don't befriend any of the Weasley's or you'll probably give Draco an aneurysm."

Harry ducked over his stewed slugs, mind suddenly racing. It would be hopeless, of course, plus Hermione was right, Malfoy would have an aneurysm if he did it.

Harry risked a glance over to the Gryffindor table. Malfoy was now mimicking Seamus, pretending to fall over from his own potion and grunting like an idiot as the other Slytherins chuckled.

Harry kicked Malfoy’s stool out from under him, watching Malfoy grab onto the workbench for dear life as the dungeon roared with laughter.

Tuning out Malfoy’s furious tirade, he glanced at Ron who was still laughing. There was still hope. He would have the whole holiday, after all.

Once the holidays started, it didn't take very long for Harry to become depressed. Despite being generally ignored by the Dursley's, Harry had never actually been all alone before, and as there were no other Slytherins who had decided to stay behind, he had the entire dungeon to himself. What was at first a novelty; jumping from bed to bed, roasting marshmallows and such on the fire, and playing exploding snap in the common room without anyone yelling at him, soon lost its appeal.

By dinner, Harry was wondering if it was too soon to start on the handful of homework awaiting him in the Common Room. At least there it wouldn’t be as noticeable he was alone, listening to the other students as they chatted away. Sitting by himself at the Slytherin table was making him feel pathetic.

A loud shout from the Gryffindor table drew his attention. Percy the Prefect was yelling at the twins, who were both sniggering. Ron sat beside them but didn't seem interested in the conversation, eating in silence. Harry wondered if he was sad he hadn’t returned home for the holidays, wondering if there was a reason. Perhaps that could be his excuse, a friendly question about why he was at school for Christmas. Except Ron might not feel it was friendly after three months of ignoring him, he’d probably think Harry was trying to pick a fight. Harry had a half  dozen plans on how to approach Ron, but none of them seemed like they’d succeed in anything other than making Ron hate him more.

Almost as if he felt Harry's gaze, Ron glanced up and caught his eye. Panicking at being caught staring, he gave a sheepish smile. Ron looked startled, glancing right to left as though Harry had directed the smile at someone else, before he returned the smile uncertainly.

Harry ducked his head, a little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Hermione's reminding him about aneurysms.

But as he lay alone in bed that night, he thought about Hermione and Malfoy, who were off spending time with their families. He thought about how Hogwarts was feeling like a home – a real home – now. How the Slytherins were not completely awful, and how he even kind of liked them after a while. He thought of his parents. Of the Dursley's, Mrs Figg, and his tiny old closet. And Ron, who had been so friendly on the train. And how, just maybe, there was still hope after all.

By the next morning he'd made up his mind, and deliberately arrived at breakfast slightly later than usual (Pansy had insisted that one should always breakfast early, lest one missed something important of the gossipy variety). He was relieved to see that the Weasley's had all arrived and were already eating.

Taking a deep breath, Harry steeled himself. 'No one will know', he chanted silently. 'No one will know. No one will know'.

He kept up the silent mantra as he approached the Gryffindor table. They hadn't noticed him yet.

Heart in his throat, Harry stopped behind Ron, not daring to look at the older boys, who'd glanced up curiously.

"Hey Ron," Harry said, wincing at his breathless tone.

Ron had been busy with his porridge and promptly choked at Harry's greeting. He sputtered and Harry, red-faced, thumped him on the back. Eyes watering, Ron turned in his seat to stare at Harry, then at the Slytherin table and then back, apparently bemused at his presence.

"H-hey Harry," he rasped, then immediately blushed.

"Listen, Ron", said Harry in a rush, painfully aware of the other Weasley's staring, "I'm really sorry I was so rude to you before, I just didn't want my whole house to turn on me, what with the house rivalries, but I still think you're really cool, and was wondering if it was possible if we could maybe be friends".

Finishing, Harry looked determinedly at the ketchup bottle instead of at Ron, whose mouth was hanging open. There was still some porridge in there.

"Well then, Ron?" demanded one of the twins when the silence was beginning to get uncomfortable. "Going to be a man and accept that apology or not?"

Ron closed his mouth with a snap, face turning beet red, his face clashing spectacularly with his hair. He looked down into his lap, gripping his spoon so tightly it bent.

Harry was just preparing to leave with what was left of his dignity when Ron looked up again, and Harry was shocked to see his face split into a wide grin.

"You really think I'm cool?" he asked Harry, who straight away grinned back.

"Very cool."

"A shocking development, a feat you will have to tell us how you accomplished, duping Harry Potter into thinking such an outlandish thing!" chortled one of the twins, clapping his hands in delight.

"Yes!" cried the other, moving aside to give Harry room. "Take a seat, Harry my man, next to your cool new friend! Let us reintroduce ourselves. I'm George. That's Fred," he pointed to his twin, "and that's Percy the Perfect, sorry I mean _Prefect_ , but it’s ok, you don't need to both to remember his name."

Percy scowled.

"And so welcome, Harry Potter of Slytherin, to the Gryffindor table, where there is food and drink a-plenty," George finished with a flourish, bowing in his seat.

"Yes, share in our delicacies," said Fred, waving a hand over a plate of kippers. "We welcome all to feast at our table, even if you are a Slytherin. Which, still, can't for the life of me understand why you went there. George and I were sure you'd join the red and gold."

"Ah but you forget," said George happily, "Befriending a Gryffindor in _secret_ is totally Slytherin of him, the cunning little snake! Connections, connections, you will be set for life, or whatever it is you Slytherins say. I’m assuming you say things like that, by the way."

"It's not like that! I mean they _do_ say things like that, it not- the friendship things isn’t…" Harry struggled for words. "I mean, I just want to be friends with Ron, I don't intend to- to… _exploit_ him or anything!"

The twins laughed, and George thumped Harry on the back. "Don't worry Harry; we're just messing with you. We don't care if you want to have Slytherin-Gryffindor relations."

"Phrasing," muttered Ron, even though he was still smiling.

Fred shrugged. "Can't guarantee Snape will be okay with it though, he seems like the sort that would love to tell on Harry to the Slytherins."

As one, they all turned to look up at the staff table where Snape was sitting talking to Professor Vector, the Arithmancy teacher.

Harry hadn't considered that. At once all his hopes came plummeting down; there was no way Snape wouldn't revel in the opportunity to humiliate Harry. Even though he'd saved Harry's life at the Quidditch match, Snape had not stopped treating Harry like he was a talking slug, his lips curling whenever their eyes met. Harry had since learnt that the best policy for getting through their classes together was to try and talk as little as possible, although Snape was quick to find any fault in Harry's potion making. It was at those times he was eternally grateful he had Hermione, who had taken to working beside Harry to ensure he did nothing to draw the Potion Master's ire.

Harry was still staring glumly at the staff table when a flash of silver caught his eye. Professor Dumbledore was watching him over a pair of half-moon spectacles. Harry immediately panicked. Was it not allowed for different houses to sit at one another's table?

He stood, thinking of trying again after breakfast, but the headmaster smiled and gestured him back into his seat. Percy watched the interaction and smiled as Harry sank back down.

"As you can see, Professor Dumbledore approves of your actions, so not to worry," he said pompously. "He's an advocate of inter-house unity, you know, so I don't think you'll have to worry about Snape."

Harry was far from relieved. "Snape's a Slytherin," he reminded them gloomily. "And Slytherins always find a way to let someone know they don’t like something. One way or another"

But as the holidays wore on, Harry found he couldn't bring himself to worry about Snape.

Since they weren't allowed to go into one another's common rooms, Harry and the Weasley's spent their time in the Great Hall beside the enormous fireplace. The teachers soon noticed this, and in between meals moved the house tables to the side of the Hall and conjured large, squashy armchairs and coffee tables. It didn’t take long for the other students to pick up on this and soon enough the Great Hall became the go-to place to hang out rather than their common rooms.

Ron had started teaching Harry wizard chess, which Harry was struggling with mostly because muggle chess was rather different to wizard chess – the pieces were alive and had to be directed verbally, and proved to be very difficult when they didn't trust their player. Ron's set had once belonged to his grandfather, and as such they got on fine, but Harry was having extreme difficulty with his pieces, which liked to yell advice to him and question his moves. It didn't help at all that Ron was an excellent chess player, though Harry felt no resentment over his new friend's skill, although he would like it if the twins didn’t sob dramatically and pretend to faint whenever he lost a piece.

On Christmas Eve, Harry was already expecting a fantastic day ahead with good food and fun with people he liked, not expecting any presents from the Dursleys.

When he awoke the next morning, he was unsurprised to find no presents at the end of his bed (Fred and George had explained how the gifts were delivered in the most annoyingly vaguest of fashions, in a way that reminded Harry strongly of Hermione whenever she knew something others didn't). But as he groped for his glasses on his bedside table, his hand found a piece of parchment.

Cramming his glasses on his nose eagerly, he peered at the note hoping against hope for a card, perhaps from one of the girls or maybe even Ron, only to find it wasn't a Christmas card after all. Small and rectangular written with gold ink, it read _"Christmas presents will be available in the Great Hall."_

Pulling on his dressing-gown, he hurried from the dorm up to the Great Hall, passing a small group of puzzled-looking Hufflepuffs in the Entrance Hall. Like him, many of the other students seemed to have forgone getting dressed and had wandered upstairs in still in their pyjamas.

There were only two house tables which had been moved closer together at the far wall to make room. On the opposite side of the Hall, the usual twelve Christmas trees lined the walls, but this morning the four closest to the fireplace had been moved forward so that mounds of presents could be placed underneath each of them. Each one had been specially decorated in its house colours: luminous red holly berries and real hooting golden owls for Gryffindor, black candles and living yellow fairies for Hufflepuff, coloured blue and bronze bubbles and icicles for Ravenclaw, and silver bells with enchanted silver snakes circling the branches for Slytherin.

"Happy Christmas," said a voice behind Harry, Ron moving beside Harry, yawning hugely.

"You too," Harry said happily as the other Weasley's arrived.

"Bit of a break from tradition this year," commented Fred, heading towards the Gryffindor tree.

"Haven't they ever done this before?" asked Harry curiously, following them.

"Well," answered George, sifting through the presents, "Normally the presents appear at the end of your bed in the morning, and as far as I know, it's always been like that. Never had a communal thing before now."

“Weird," agreed Ron, peering over his brother's shoulder, "But I think it's nicer this way. More… homey."

"Aww, ickle Ronniekins is too pwecious!" George cooed, simpering at his brother, causing Harry to hastily stifle a laugh. Ron elbowed him in the ribs.

"Well, _I_ happen to think it's a good change!" said Percy pompously, bending down to grab a bunch of gifts and striding away.

"Oh no you don't!" cried Fred, lunging for him.

"That's right!" said George, tugging Percy back. "No sitting with the prefects today, Christmas is a time for family!"

Ron scooped up his gifts and turned to Harry. "Want to open ours together?"

"What about-?" he asked, glancing at the twins who had Percy trapped between them.

Ron laughed, "Don't worry about them; they're just doing that to pick on Percy. We can all sit at the same table anyway, there's only two. Grab your presents and we can sit down."

"Oh, I don't have any," replied Harry cheerily, moving towards the closest table.

Ron nudged him and pointed. "Well there are presents under the Slytherin tree, and I can't think of who else they'd be for."

Harry spun around. Sure enough, under the tree decked out in silver, there was a small pile of packages.

"But… seriously?" said Harry, walking over to them. "I've got presents?” He poked one, and it didn’t explode or disappear. He beamed at Ron. “I’ve got presents!"

Ron chuckled and waited as Harry gathered them before moving off to find a place at one of the tables to sort through the unexpected gifts. Ron's mother had sent him a hand knitted jumper and a box of fudge; Ron nonchalantly told him that he’d informed her that Harry hadn't been expecting gifts, and he once again turned beet red when Harry had looked at him dead in the eye and said with as much emotion as he could muster: ‘Thank you.’ The other gifts included a hand-whittled flute from Hagrid (it sounded a bit like an owl), a sixpence taped to a letter from the Dursley's (Ron had been fascinated by the muggle money and Harry had cheerfully giving it to him), and a box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.

This only left two parcels. One was lumpy and very light, the other package long and thin. Both had notes attached.

Figuring bigger was better, he left the long one for last and turned to the other package. The letter was written in narrow, loopy writing Harry had never seen before.

" _Your father left this in my possession before he died._

_It is time it was returned to you._

_Use it well._

_A Very Merry Christmas to you."_

There was no signature. Unwrapping the paper slowly, he saw something silvery grey. It was strange to the touch, like water woven into material. Harry felt very strange. What was it? Had it really belonged to his father?

Folding the paper back up, Harry set it aside. He wasn't going to unwrap it in front of everyone else; something like that felt very private.

Intent on ridding himself of the sudden prickling in his heart, Harry picked up the letter from the last package. He had no trouble recognising the elegant scrawl. Tearing it open, he felt foolishly pleased that Malfoy had sent him something regardless of the present itself, and immeasurably guilty that he was throwing their fragile affability back in Malfoy's face by befriending Ron behind his back.

Inside the letter was a newspaper clipping. Harry decided to read the letter first.

" _Harry,_

_I know you weren't expecting any presents this Christmas, but maybe you got some from Hermione or your sweetheart Daphne or whoever, but I thought I'd get you something anyway, because it's criminal not to get anything on Christmas. So go read the enclosed newspaper article now –"_

Harry grinned. Even on paper he was being bossed around by Malfoy. Nevertheless, he was touched that he was so concerned (Harry was reading between the lines here) and forgave his previous taunts immediately – as usual, Hermione proved to be spot on.

The cutting was an ad from a wizard's paper (he could tell because the people in the picture were moving) advertising a broomstick: The Nimbus Two Thousand. Harry recalled hearing about it on his trip to Diagon Alley, but beyond that, he was stumped when it came to different brooms. Curious, he returned to the letter.

"– _if you've done what I told you, you should know what I'm talking about. Clearly those atrocious school brooms are faulty and dangerous, and when I told my father – he's a governor of Hogwarts, by the way – about what happened at you first match, he completely agreed that it was unsafe for a student to play Quidditch on one, so he spoke to the headmaster, and you now have special permission to have this at school._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_P.S. Open it now, you dolt!"_

The insult barely registered; Harry was already excitedly ripping the paper off, hardly daring to hope it was really –

– a broomstick rolled onto the table.

"A Nimbus Two Thousand!" exclaimed Ron enviously, dropping his liquorice wand, "I've never even _touched_ one."

"Wow!" Harry breathed. He may know nothing about the different brooms, but he still thought it looked wonderful. Sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of neat, straight twigs and _Nimbus Two Thousand_ written in gold near the top.

"Hang on," Percy suddenly exclaimed, striding over. "First years aren't allowed brooms at school Harry," he said pompously, making to take it from him.

Harry shot up, clutching the broom to his chest. Like hell he was going to let anyone take it from him; it was his very own _broom,_ and a present from Malfoy no less.

"Hand it over, Harry," warned Percy, holding out his hand. "You know the rules."

"No way, it's mine!" shouted Harry, uncaring at how possessive his voice sounded. Ron seemed to agree with the sentiment though, if the way he was glaring at Percy was any indication.

"What's this now?" a tiny voice interrupted. They all turned to see Professor Flitwick glancing anxiously between them, arms full of pumpkin pasties.

"Potter's been sent a broom, sir," said Percy, puffing out his chest. "I was just about to confiscate it."

"No, no, that's quite alright Mr Weasley," said Flitwick, beaming at Harry. "Dumbledore's told me all about the special circumstances. After that fiasco at the last match, it's quite understandable, a personal broom will be much safer. And it looks like you've got yourself a fine broom there, Mr Potter."

"Thank you, sir," Harry replied, trying not to laugh at Percy's gobsmacked expression.

"Well, I'll see you boys at the feast then," Flitwick squeaked, hurrying away.

"Bye, Professor!" Harry and Ron chorused back, before Ron returned to the broom.

"This is so awesome," he moaned, gazing at the broom with longing, "Bet _I'll_ never get a broom for Christmas. Whoever sent you this is the best!"

Somehow, Harry knew better than to tell Ron it was sent from none other than Draco Malfoy, that would go down _really_ well. As Fred and George joined in admiring Harry's new broom, Harry's thoughts returned to Malfoy. This was easily the most expensive thing he'd ever owned, and Malfoy… Malfoy had _given_ it to him.

He suddenly felt very stupid – he hadn’t even thought to give Malfoy a present. Harry was definitely going to have to make it up to him somehow.

The holidays were over all too soon. Everyone arrived back the day before classes restarted, and Harry and Ron, by mutual agreement, were back to publicly pretending each other didn't exist.

Harry had been a nervous wreck as the Slytherins began trickling into the common room, waiting for the pointed fingers, the accusations. By the time the other first years arrived he was almost crawling up the walls in his paranoia. When asked how his holidays were, Harry’s voice came out as a strangled sort of screech. Daphne gave him an excuse by accusing him of spending the holidays goofing off instead of working on his homework, but Pansy was definitely eyeing him suspiciously. There was a moment of weakness where Harry almost began screaming the truth to the room, professing his guilt and begging forgiveness. The only outward sign of this was a slight twitch as he casually responded with a bland "No, my holidays were perfectly boring," which was accepted without suspicion. Whether or not Snape would call him on his lie remained to be seen.

But more than anything, Harry was the most anxious about seeing Malfoy again. He'd hardly slept the night before, insides squirming with guilt as he thought of his fun-filled Christmas spent with the Weasley's, and the promise he made to Hermione before the holidays. If Malfoy discovered Harry's betrayal, it was certain he’d never forgive him, and as much as he was an annoying prat, Harry couldn't bear the thought of being unable to speak with him ever again.

Every time the entrance door opened Harry jolted upright, eyes searching for white-blonde hair and grey eyes, only to slump disappointed back into the armchair. When Hermione arrived, there was a knowing smirk at his reactions, and a whispered word to Pansy had all of the other girls giggling at him as well. Face hot, he tried to ignore them, chatting to Blaise about his Christmas in Italy, forcing himself to laugh about his cousin who had less than pleasant encounter with a vampire.

It was almost dinnertime and the common room had emptied, with still no sign of Malfoy. Unable to wait any longer, the first years stood to leave for dinner, only for the entrance wall to slide open to reveal Draco Malfoy in dark green robes and looking furious.

"Draco!" Pansy cried, flinging her arms around his neck. "We were beginning to worry you weren't coming back."

Scowling, Malfoy pushed her off of him. "Merlin’s sake, I'm just late, Pansy," he snapped, striding past them.

"We were just heading up to dinner now, shall we wait for-" Pansy called after him, but Malfoy cut her off.

"No need," he snarled, not looking back, "I've got to change." With that he disappeared into the boy’s dorms.

Everyone shared a glance.

It was very unlike Malfoy to be so cold to his fellow Slytherins, which meant something must have happened to seriously upset him, but no one made a move to follow him. Pansy, masking her hurt, ushered them all out the door. At the entrance, she paused, glancing back at Harry who hadn't moved from the common room.

"I've got to go get something," Harry explained at her expectant look.

For a moment, Pansy looked as though she wanted to say something, but then she nodded and left without a word.

As soon as the wall slid closed, Harry's unconcerned mask dropped and he began to hyperventilate. He had to speak to Malfoy, but the blonde was angry about something, and Harry's imagination was supplying him with horrible images; Snape telling Malfoy about what had occurred over Christmas, Harry becoming a social outcast, friendless and alone.

Just like before.

Screw that! Harry wasn't ever going back to how it was at the Dursley's, not if he could help it. He had a spine, though if Malfoy had found out the truth he might not have one for much longer (thank Merlin Vince and Greg had already gone to dinner or Harry was certain he'd be losing body parts). But still, he wasn't going to cower in fear, wondering when Malfoy would unleash his wrath; it was time to man up.

Taking a deep breath, Harry strode down the hall to the last door, throwing it open. Malfoy straightened, his robes half unbuttoned. Everything Harry had planned on saying flew out of his head at the unguarded surprise on the other boy's face. As though he hadn’t expected anyone to approach him. The sight of Harry in the doorway made his surprise quickly disappear into a glower.

"What do you want, Potter?" he spat, resuming buttoning the shirt. "Can't you see I'm bus-"

He gasped as Harry flung his arms around Malfoy's neck, just as Pansy had.

"Thank-you-so-much-for-the-broom-it-was-the-best-gift-ever-I-love-it-so-much-thankyouthankyouthankyou!" Harry babbled as quickly as he could before the taller boy could push him off.

Malfoy's thin body was stiff in his arms, but Harry suddenly didn’t know if he should let go or stay like that, just in case once free he decided to deck him. It was a shock when, with a sigh, Malfoy relaxed, slumping into the embrace. There was no shouts, no anger, not any of the expected reactions – Harry was nonplussed.

A pale hand reached up to rest lightly on his spine. Unwillingly, Harry shivered.

He'd never hugged someone before, or been hugged in before. Not really. The brief squeeze friends gave one another was nothing like a _proper_ embrace, and for the first time, Harry let himself sink into the sensation.

Malfoy's body was warm, his breath tickling the fine hairs behind Harry's ear. The soft cotton of his shirt crumpled under Harry's fingers, and he clutched it like he was drowning, and Malfoy was his lifeline. And he was drowning, the clean scent of Malfoy rolling over him. It was the most intimate thing he'd ever experienced and for a moment, he felt overwhelmed with emotion. If his parents had survived, would he have been hugged like this? Maybe he would have had siblings, a brother who would wrap an arm around his back, just like this, warm and comforting. Caring.

Tears pricked his eyes and he hurriedly buried his face into the soft curve of Malfoy's neck. "Missed you," he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the treacherous tears, but his voice still trembled.

Malfoy's arm tightened around his middle, a thundering heartbeat answering Harry's. Malfoy let out hard breath, ruffling the unruly tresses of Harry's hair.

"Me too," Malfoy whispered.

Harry had thought so many times how glad he was to have come to Hogwarts, but it was only then, in Malfoy's embrace, did he truly appreciate the unexpected blessing of discovering the world of magic.

Harry was perfectly happy to remain there, but his stomach chose that moment to interrupt with an audible grumble – curses, he'd barely eaten all day, so overcome with nerves. Reluctantly, Harry withdrew his arms and stepped away. He was pleased to see that Malfoy's face had turned a rosy pink as the blonde resumed undressing. He didn't really want to ruin the mood, but considering it was already slightly uncomfortable now, Harry decided to go out on a limb.

"Sooooo. Why, er, why were you so upset before?"

Back turned, Malfoy froze, his shoulders rising slightly. Apparently, the limb was a little too thin to be on. But Harry was the reckless type – the type to test a branch's strength by bouncing on it.

"You were really mean to Pansy before. Just because you're angry doesn't mean you can be rude to people, Draco," he said in his best Hermione-lecture mode.

It wasn’t working, Harry could practically see the steam coming out of Malfoy's ears. He had no idea what was wrong with him, and teasing wasn’t the way to go but Harry must have secretly been some kind of sado-masochistic nutcase who got off on poking sleeping dragons in the eye then trying to out run the flames. Time to throw down the stick and start running.

"I mean, you would tell me what's wrong, wouldn't you, _Draco_? We are _best friends_ after all, and I'm just, I don't know, worried about you, I guess."

Okay, probably laying it on a bit thick, but if it works it works. His back still turned, Malfoy seemed to be having some deep inner battle. Harry let him struggle in silence, letting the bait dangle. Malfoy was too easy sometimes; he wouldn't resist taking that admission for all its worth and the price was small, just one little confession and Harry would be his best friend forever more.

"My father was displeased to learn about the incident at Halloween. He was not aware I had decided to disgrace the family by befriending a mudblood," Malfoy finally said to the wall.

Bam! Malfoy was too easy, Harry thought, not bothering to hide his grin; Malfoy was still not looking at him. "But that’s no big deal. Why would it matter if you’re friends with Hermione? The whole house has accepted her, more or less. Well, they don’t outright hate her, so what’s the problem?"

"My father doesn't think Hogwarts should be open to mudbloods, that they're just as bad as muggles," Malfoy said stiffly, "And he says I shouldn't associate with people like that, no matter how good their marks are. And if I don’t know how to respect those principles, he’ll send me to a school where those ideals are upheld."

"But…" Harry gaped, lost for words at the threat of pulling Malfoy from Hogwarts over something like that. “But that’s… That’s mad! I thought your dad wanted you to schmooze with talented people or whatever it is you lot do. You know, rub knees with the rich and famous,” Harry argued as Malfoy pulled on his jumper.

"Rub elbows," Malfoy corrected, gazing at Harry thoughtfully. “You are very fond of Hermione, aren’t you?”

Harry blinked. “Well, she’s my friend, if that’s what you mean. Why, got a crush?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes as he finished slipping on his school robes. “Don’t be a prat. But she’s your precious friend, who you like a lot and any friend of yours…”

Malfoy trailed off, the usual devious glint returning to his eyes. "And, well... she _is_ very smart. A worthy enough friend for someone like you. Yes, then it’s decided: I shall stay reluctant friends with Granger," he announced, smoothing his robes and striding off to the Common Room entrance.

Harry was already well aware that prejudice was alive and strong in the wizarding world, and that Malfoy was willing to make even that small concession pleased him too no end. Hermione was an excellent witch, and muggle-born or no, that alone should garner some respect.

Malfoy turned only to catch Harry grinning so hard his face was hurting. "Stop smiling, you twat," he snapped as he strode away, but said twat's smile only grew.

"Whatever you say, my reluctant friend," Harry chirped behind him.

Malfoy fumbled opening the doorknob, his face pink once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ron Weasley is my everything, and he and Harry are best friends in every timeline, you know it, I know it, we all know it.


	4. Encounters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you juggle slow-burn and conflict?

Harry didn’t fall off his broom for the whole Quidditch match, something of an achievement in his books. He’d been the weak link in the last match, a neon target for the Ravenclaws, but the first match after Christmas went without a hitch. The Nimbus 2000 was a dream, moving at the slightest touch without any jerky movements or strange vibrating, in short, it was leagues better than the Hogwarts brooms. As he ducked under the Hufflepuff Keeper’s broom, hurling the quaffle into the left hoop for his seventh goal, the sea of students in green roared their approval. Harry was at last beginning to see the appeal of school sports.

Buoyed by his teammates praise at his flying, he bounced all the way from the change rooms, only to pause as a familiar shrill voice reached his ears.

Standing in the shade of the Quidditch stands, Pansy was in all-out lecture mode, her voice so high Harry was sure it would make dogs howl. The victim of her furious tirade was none other than Malfoy, slouching against the wooden beams in obvious boredom.

"–Should have just ignored him Malfoy, honestly! Where's your self-control as a Slytherin?" Pansy was half-shouting, hands on hips.

"What's up?" Harry asked as he joined them.

Malfoy turned to him and Harry immediately doubled over laughing. Malfoy was sporting a brilliant black eye that made him resemble a very irritated panda.

"Don't you laugh too," Malfoy whined, "This is proof of my victory. None of you seem to realise this is a battle scar."

"Battle with what? A kitten?" Harry sneered through his laughter.

Malfoy drew himself up, looking impossibly smug. "Not a kitten, a Weasel."

Harry's chuckles immediately turned to choking. 'Weasel' could only mean one thing: _Ron_.

"Getting into a fistfight with Ron Weasley is nothing to be proud about, Draco!" snapped Pansy. "You may not have started it, but you were _looking_ for trouble by sitting behind them."

Malfoy looked affronted. "I was just indulging in some good naturedly ribbing is all. Honestly, Pansy, you make Gryffindor-baiting sound like a crime."

Pansy’s eyes flared with rage at Malfoy’s nonchalance, but Harry, mouth still twitching with ill-suppressed amusement, interjected. "Looks like Ron took offence at the so-called good-natured ribbing," he said, smirking as Malfoy touched his eye self-consciously. "How come Vince and Greg didn't help you?"

This time it was Malfoy who smirked. "They were busy dealing with Longbottom."

Harry choked. " _Neville_ Longbottom? That boy who always cries in Potions? Since when did he grow a spine?" Harry wondered aloud, then suddenly scowled at Malfoy. "This is _so_ because of that Leg-Locker Curse you put on him the other day."

Malfoy shrugged. "Well, Longbottom's learnt not to mess with Slytherins, he's in the Hospital Wing. Out cold," he explained at Harry's worried gasp, "Nothing to worry about. Ah, but you should have seen it Harry, I gave the Weasel a nosebleed, it may even be broken!"

Harry forced out a laugh before giving the half-hearted excuse about lunch and hurried away, leaving Pansy to continued berating Malfoy.

His earlier elation had dampened slightly with the reminder of Ron and Malfoy's mutual loathing. If it ever came down to choosing a side, the smart choice in terms of Harry self-preservation would be Malfoy. But when push came to shove, could he? Ron was so _easy_ to be friends with, but there were no chances to hang out now that classes had resumed. There had to be a way Harry could maintain his friendship with Ron without he and Malfoy always at each other's throats.

 

 

 

"That oafish friend of yours has a dirty little secret."

Harry, who was looking up 'Dittany' in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , didn't look up. Exams were approaching, and the teachers had given them a mountain of homework, leaving Harry very little time to even think about the conundrum of Ron’s friendship. Confined to the library during his free time after Hermione discovered he didn’t know how to study ‘properly’, Harry had no time to waste on indulging Malfoy, who apparently couldn't accept not having Harry’s undivided attention for more than ten minutes at a time. That evening, Malfoy instead sidled up to Harry with a triumphant smirk that could only spelled trouble.

"Go _away_ Malfoy," he hissed as the other boy slid his chair over and draped himself over Harry's open books.

"But don't you want to know that gamekeeper's secret?" he crooned, refusing to budge as Harry pushed at him.

"Fine, then, tell me," Harry groaned, knowing better than to drag this out.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. " _Please_ tell me, oh great and wonderful Draco, wizard among wizards _,_ " Harry drawled, prying his potions book out from under Malfoy’s arms.

Ignoring his sarcasm entirely, Malfoy smirked and slapped down a book in front of them.

Curious, Hermione paused in her own study to read out the title aloud. " _From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper's Guide_." She glanced at Harry, eyes wide.

"Hagrid's always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time I ever met him," said Harry slowly.

"But it's against our laws!" exclaimed Hermione, looking frightened. "Dragon-breeding was outlawed by the Warlock's Convention of 1709. What on earth is Hagrid up to? Surely he isn't thinking of..."

Malfoy's smirk grew. "Yes, he is thinking. I know exactly what he's up to: the great idiot's gone and got himself a dragon egg."

Harry scowled. "Don't call him an idiot. And how do you know he's got an egg? Hermione just said it's _illegal_. Hagrid might just be reading about it, that's all."

Malfoy's smirk widened into a cruel grin. "I saw him borrowing a book on dragon raising: _Dragon breeding for Pleasure and Profit_ , and your right, that's not the suspicious part. He _does_ have his curtains drawn down in that hut of his, and he hasn't been attending meals and has been neglecting his duties. So, I nipped down to check it out, and I could see through a gap in the curtains – ("Draco!" Hermione chastised) – and voila! Little leathery thing is running around on his table."

He cackled with glee, not stopping even when Madam Pince, chased them out for 'disruptive and unruly behaviour'. As soon as they were out of earshot in a deserted corridor, Harry grabbed the front of Malfoy's robes.

"Don't you dare tell on Hagrid, Malfoy," Harry growled, face inches from his. "I mean it, don't even think about breaking a single _word_ to anyone, or I'll make sure you regret it."

The other boy sneered. "It makes no difference to me if I tell or not," Malfoy hissed, grey eyes glinting maliciously. "Soon enough, everyone's going to know about that dragon anyway; they grow fast, and that great idiot _lives in a wooden hut_."

He grabbed Harry's wrists and ripped them off, straightening his robes before he marched away, but of course, he paused long enough to call back over his shoulder. "But I won't tell Harry, just so I can see you sweat over saving that fool. Good luck~"

Harry's loud swearing mingled with Malfoy’s fading laughter.

 

 

 

But surprisingly, Malfoy did keep his word. That didn't stop him shooting knowing looks at Harry, who was furious enough as it was. He and Hermione had gone down to Hagrid's hut to demand to see the baby dragon for themselves. When Hagrid discovered that they already knew, he proudly showed them it, who he had named 'Norbert', excitedly telling them about the species and care involved, waxing poetic as the horrible thing sank its teeth into Hagrid's boot.

The two of them had attempted to reason with Hagrid, but their pleas to get rid of it fell on deaf ears; Hagrid was smitten. Hermione had to concede defeat when her exam frenzy reclaimed her, and Harry was left on his own to deal with Hagrid.

Harry was at his wits end. He didn't want the gamekeeper to get in trouble, but he had absolutely no idea what to do about it, he knew nothing of dragons, and Hagrid refused to release it into the wild, claiming Norbert was too young.

And then, the solution came to him. It was Potions, and Malfoy was flicking pufferfish eyes at the back of Ron's head, who simply turned and flicked his wand at the fire beneath Malfoy’s cauldron, extinguishing it with a puff of smoke. As Malfoy’s potion began to emit violet sparks without it’s heat source, Harry considered Ron’s laughing face. It was risky, dangerous, and downright stupid, but his need to get rid of that damn dragon trumped his own complicated feelings. And deep down, he knew that Ron would help him.

After potions, Harry managed to corner Ron on his way down to Herbology. Ignoring the looks from the rest of the Gryffindors, Harry asked quietly, "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Ron’s smile came easily, and once more Harry felt a twang of guilt at avoiding him since classes started.

It was easier than Harry anticipated. Ron wrote to his older brother Charlie, who was working with dragons in Romania. A week later, Hedwig returned with Charlie's reply, who was happy to take Norbert. Maybe this was why he didn’t get into Gryffindor, Harry mused, as Ron excitedly planned how to do the exchange, an adventure, he called it. Harry thought that calling it 'an adventure' was a bit much, it was a huge pain in the arse. He could not wait to be rid of the baby dragon, which was growing at an alarming rate.

But his anxiety about the dragon was nothing compared to his fear of being found out by the rest of the Slytherins. Now that Ron was in on the plan, Harry often had to seek out the Gryffindor and vice versa, which didn't go unnoticed. Excuses about sudden toilet emergencies or leaving a book or quill behind only worked so much before even Vince and Greg got suspicious.

Hermione had a hissed interrogation ready for him in Charms, unheard beneath the chatter and everyone's work. But it was when Malfoy began to catch on that Harry began to lose it, narrowed grey eyes following his every movement.

It was a dark, cloudy night when Harry and Ron arrived at Hagrid's hut. They'd timed it so that everyone was at dinner, and Harry had somehow managed to convince a suspicious Hermione to cover for his absence, while Ron was supposedly sick in the Hospital Wing after an 'accident' involving a dare and some dubious Every Flavour Beans.

Wary of their limited time, they allowed Hagrid a very quick teary goodbye before they hoisted the crate containing Norbert and racing back across the grounds.

How they managed to get the crate back up to the castle, they never knew, half expecting to come across Filch or Mrs Norris as they snuck up to the Astronomy Tower. But they did make it, out of breath, flopping down under the starry sky to wait for midnight to come, shivering in the biting winds. By the time Charlie's friends arrived, Harry's muscles were frozen stiff, and after finishing harnessing Norbert between brooms and waving goodbye, they didn't linger in the night air, tiptoeing quickly back down the spiral stairs.

So relieved to be rid of the dragon, Harry and Ron grinned at each other as they made their way down the seventh floor. They'd done it, the impossible. What could spoil their elation at the adventure now?

"I _knew_ it!"

Of bloody course.

Standing at the end of the corridor, Malfoy was glaring at Harry, his white-blonde hair glinting in the light of his wand. Hermione was behind him, glancing from Harry to Ron to Malfoy, looking petrified.

"I'm sorry Harry," she whispered. "I tried to stop him, but he was going on about the dragon and –"

"Never mind that," snarled Malfoy. "What on earth are you doing up here alone with _him_?" he demanded, jabbing his wand at Ron.

Excuses, alibis and wild cover-up stories chased each other around Harry's brain, each feebler than the last. He had to explain, or Malfoy would misunderstand.

But Ron beat him to it. "Him? You mean, me, Ron Weasley, Gryffindor and blood traitor, right? That’s all you care about? No wonder Harry didn’t bother telling you a thing.” Malfoy’s wand tip flared, briefly illuminated the corridor in blinding light. “Oh dear,” Ron snarled, “Bit jealous at being left out, are we?”

Malfoy seemed to swell like a balloon. "Why would I be jealous of a Weasel like _you_?" he spat back.

Ron rose up as well, trembling with fury. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because Harry needed _my_ help and not _yours_. He came to _me_ and not _you_!"

Malfoy's face went very white.

"No, wait, it's not like that!" Harry cried desperately, stretching out a hand to Malfoy, "I just needed to get rid of the dragon."

"Shut UP!" screamed Malfoy; his wand tip emitting red sparks. "There is _no_ excuse to be with a filthy blood traitor!"

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but Ron shouted over him. "Harry can hang around with whoever he wants. After all, I’m his _friend_!"

The words seemed to hang there in the air between them. Harry could see the blank shock in Malfoy's eyes, head shaking slowly as though he refused to believe Ron’s words. Hermione was looking from Harry to Ron with wide eyes.

"Draco," Harry murmured, his eyes pleading, but at his voice, Malfoy's face smoothed into a blank mask. But Harry had to make things right. "I, I just –"

"Well, well, well," and oily voice purred from the darkness. "We _are_ in trouble"

Filch had found them.

 

 

 

Things couldn’t get any worse.

Malfoy wasn't speaking or even looking at Harry anymore, deliberately sitting beside Hermione once they were in Professor Snape's office, stiff with anger. Ron looked nervous and jumpy, fearfully gazing at the assortment of jars containing slimy things that adorned shelves lining the dungeon walls. Hermione was trembling. Harry felt an extra pang of guilt; he'd dragged her into trouble for no reason other than his own selfishness. He'd gotten them all into trouble.

But he could get them out of it, he would take the punishment for them if he got the chance.

Filch brought down both Snape and McGonagall, the latter furious beyond words. Harry flinched. This was not like the troll incident; they were all in serious trouble.

Professor McGonagall looked like she was about to breath fire as she towered over them. "I can't believe this! Mr Filch says you were up the astronomy tower. It's one o'clock in the morning. _Explain yourselves_."

There was absolute silence. They had no excuse, at least, none that would save their hides.

Panic enveloped Harry's mind, conjuring outcomes that were each more terrible than the last. It was the dread of being expelled, of returning to the Dursley's wandless and alone just like Hagrid, that made Harry blurt out the first thing he could think of.

"It's my fault," Harry said, trying not to flinch as the two heads of house turned their eyes on him. "I had a fight with Ron, and I was really angry, so I made up a story to get him out of bed and into trouble. Malfoy and Hermione accidently heard and followed me."

"Really?" said Professor McGonagall, her voice trembling. "So, the reason you're all out of bed is because of _some silly prank_?"

That was a voice that was soooo not believing him. After the whole troll debacle, it seemed unlikely that the teachers would buy another cock-and-bull story that it was all just a big misunderstanding. The choices were limited in what the teachers were going to swallow. Harry scrolled through his options, and winced when his mind stopped on the only one that was enough; he didn't want to go that way, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The survival part of his brain took over.

"I – I know it's against the rules to be out of bed at night," Harry said to his knees, allowing his fear to colour his voice. "But I just – I was getting a hard time because I was hanging out with a Gryffindor, ‘cause of the house rivalry and all, and, well – I didn't mean any of this to happen, but I’m really enjoying Hogwarts and I just wanted to... fit in."

Under the cover of his fringe, he glanced to his side. Both Hermione and Malfoy were staring at him with wide eyes and Hermione even had her mouth open slightly. He gave them a meaningful look before looking back to his knees. When he chanced another look their way, Hermione had covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes looking wet as she gazed at him with pity, but Malfoy was glaring at him. But when their eyes met, Harry saw the merest flicker of something in that silver gaze before Harry hurriedly looked away: that odd hungry look was back in Malfoy’s eyes.

Harry playing the 'insecure friendless orphan' card was a low blow, but he could deal with the guilt of that later. He chanced a watery look at Ron, who’s calculating gaze was already twisting into feigned anger.

Schooling his face into that which was appropriate for a guilt-ridden orphan and nervous first-year, he looked back up at the teachers. Shockingly, Professor McGonagall's face had softened slightly, though she was still frowning. Snape's eyebrows were infinitesimally raised, but Harry couldn't be sure if it was because he believed the lie or seen straight through their little ruse. Harry quickly weighed his odds. There was a chance, a good chance, that this just might work and they wouldn't be punished too badly. But that would mean that the others would have to play along with Harry's story, and Malfoy didn't seem quite ready to forgive the other's betrayal just yet, but hopefully, he’d do what he always did: save his own hide and save revenge for later.

"I knew it!" Malfoy snarled, making Harry jump. He immediately turned to the other boy, wide eyed at the fierceness in his voice. "You have been paling around with Gryffindors then."

Harry's face crumpled, and Malfoy's lit momentarily with a small spark of malicious glee, before he refocused on the task at hand. "Weasley and Hagrid both," he hissed, "You just love being all friendly with Gryffindors, I bet you wanted to be in their house. How you ended up in Slytherin, I'll never know."

Harry didn't need to fake the shock and hurt he felt at Malfoy's words; he didn't need reminding that he did want to be in Gryffindor initially, even though in the end he wound up in Slytherin. But the accusation hit a tender spot in Harry, and he could tell Malfoy knew that, the anger and hurt in his stormy grey eyes softening suddenly with guilt. Harry could feel the apologies on the tip of his tongue, longing to spill out and explain to Malfoy, to tell him the truth and beg forgiveness before it was too late and that impenetrable mask was back in place.

Thankfully, Ron was there to pick up the thread before they let it fall. “Merlin, you sure love to whine about nothing, don’t you Malfoy,” he snarled, leaning across his chair to properly bare his teeth at him. “Gotta tell yourself you’re so great, don’t you? Don’t want to wonder why the Boy Who Lived prefers a Gryffindor’s company over a prat like you?”

Harry started to panic again – this was getting out of control. They were playing their parts a little too well. There was real fury twisting Malfoy’s face this time. “Why you filthy-”

"Don't you start again, Draco!" Hermione snapped, her voice teary and angry at the same time. "This is your fault, always giving Harry a hard time. I told you to leave it alone, but _no_ , why would ever listen to the stupid muggleborn! And now we're going to be _expelled_ because of your petty little jealousies!" And with that she burst into tears.

Harry stifled a sigh of relief. Hermione had wrangled back control with a nice dash of racial prejudices and some tears, a very nice touch. Professor McGonagall was now looking distinctly upset as Ron actually growled at Malfoy. Harry, cheering on the inside at Hermione’s display, tried to look guilty as he patted her back. Malfoy too seemed shamefaced at her words, though his silver eyes were dancing at their performance. At least he was having fun, the vicious git, Harry thought wryly.

"Please don't cry Hermione," Harry said softly, though he made sure his voice could still be heard above her sobs; this _was_ all for the teachers after all. "It's my fault, not Malfoy's. I'm sure you won't be expelled, you're way too clever to be expelled."

When in doubt, guilt the adults. Harry had never used this particular technique before but he'd seen Dudley employ it often enough with Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and the occasional teacher to know how it was done.

"You aren't going to be expelled, Miss Granger," said McGonagall gruffly. Harry looked up at her hopefully. "However," she continued sternly, "This cannot go unpunished. Severus?"

"Twenty points each from Slytherin" Severus said quietly, his face once again blank. "And detention, I think."

McGonagall nodded. "Yes, twenty points from Gryffindor as well." She glared at them again. "I am willing to go easy this time, if only because you are first years, and I understand the difficulties of finding one's place in one's new house. However, if I catch any of you out of bed again, you can expect the punishments to be much more severe. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry ducked his head. "Yes Professor," he chorused contritely with the others.

Hook, line and sinker.

 

 

 

As undoubtedly was Malfoy's objective, Harry was absolutely miserable.

Despite managing to get off the hook (for the most part) with the teachers, it was clear that Malfoy was still furious with Harry for his secret friendship with Ron and now he was punishing Harry for it.

The morning after the whole episode, the Slytherins were quick to notice the sudden drop in points, and Malfoy made no secret as to the reason why. Usually, losing house points was not something to be proud about, but such a deception pulled off by a couple of first years who were caught by two of the most unforgiving teachers in Hogwarts was quite the achievement, and the rest of the Slytherins was understandably impressed. Until Malfoy let it be known why they were found out of bed in the first place.

They were none too happy to hear that one of their own had been mucking around with a Gryffindor; they had tolerated Harry's friendship with Hagrid with a cool disdain, but let it be nonetheless – such a friendship could prove advantageous for Harry... possibly. Befriending a first year Gryffindor, on the other hand, was a whole different kettle of fish. The rivalry between the two houses had been steadily growing more heated, and as the Quidditch finals approached, the tensions began bubbling over with their usual ferocity.

The mere fact that Harry had kept it secret combined with who it was, _well_. Harry might have got away with it, but he’d chosen to secretly befriend a poor and average wizard from one of the biggest blood traitor families, which somehow was seen as practically spitting in the face of Salazar Slytherin himself. Through one bloody mistake, Harry had ensured that every single Slytherin now went out of their way to insult and bully him wherever he went.

Even though it was too little too late, Harry swore to himself not to meddle in things that weren't his business from now on. He'd had it with sneaking around and lying; it only ended up biting him in the behind.

Taking the hint from Malfoy, none of the other first years were speaking with Harry any more than what was absolutely required; he was back to being known solely as ‘Potter’ and was only spoken to if someone wanted some syrup or could he please pass down the pickled newt. The only exception was Hermione, who instead of ignoring him was speaking to him incessantly, lecturing him nonstop: why he shouldn't meddle, why he should listen to her because she was _always_ right, why he shouldn't have spent his free time flying, and why oh why he shouldn't have struck up a friendship with Ron Weasley of all people.

Harry bore it all silently, because no matter how much he didn't want to admit it, she was right, he _had_ brought all of this on himself and he had no one else to blame.

What was even worse was Malfoy, who not only was giving him the cold shoulder but every now and then he would give a pointed look or make a meaningful remark to the others that would remind Harry just what he’d given up.

It hurt. It was irritating that it hurt. The Slytherins were being stupid pricks getting upset over nothing, just one stupid little boy who thought he’d try and be friends with one bloody Gryffindor, but that ‘crime’ was somehow bad enough to basically warrant a public crucifixion in their eyes. It hurt how much it hurt, and it bloody well hurt that he was actually upset and guilty over _Malfoy_.

Surely having friends wasn’t supposed to hurt this much?

His only hope at feeling better was to slowly try to worm his way back into Malfoy’s good books, much as the thought pained him. And this time, he suspected cutting ties with Ron wouldn’t work again, especially since Ron seemed to be as equally angry with Harry as the Slytherins were.

Whatever the Gryffindor felt, Harry told himself firmly, now was none of his concern; their friendship had officially terminated, the trial run had ended in disaster and he was too busy trying to salvage the wreckage to bother following up on a bond that was doomed from the moment Harry made Slytherin. And every time he told himself that, the lie tore another hole in his heart.

Harry was almost glad that the exams weren't far away; all the revision he had to do kept his mind off of his misery. He kept to himself, working late into the night, trying to remember the ingredients to complicated potions, learn charms and spells off by heart, and memorise the dates of magical discoveries and goblin rebellions.

A week before the exams were due to start, notes were delivered to Harry, Hermione and Malfoy at the breakfast table. They were all the same:

" _Your detention will take place at eleven_ _o'clock tonight._

 _Meet Mr Filch in the_ _Entrance Hall._

_Prof. S. Snape"_

At a quarter to eleven that night Harry made his way up to the entrance hall, hoping to be early enough. After spending months in close living quarters with Draco Malfoy, Harry had come to learn the other boy's various habits, and one of them was being ridiculously punctual. Filch was already standing there – and so was Malfoy with none of the others in sight.

Whatever their detention was, Malfoy wouldn’t be able to escape or shield himself with the other students like the past few days. Harry would talk sense into him, make Malfoy forgive him… by lying through his teeth and pulling every one of Malfoy’s jealous little strings.

Malfoy watched his approach with a blank face, but seeing no signs of dismissal, Harry didn't change his course. He sidled up beside Malfoy, smiling shyly, who raised his eyebrows but made no comment on their closeness. Inwardly Harry whooped in victory – playing the meek submissive card got a big ol’ tick as usual. When Hermione finally arrived to see them standing together she faltered slightly before joining them, looking pleased. Ron was the last to arrive, warily eyeing the trio of Slytherins, two of whom scowled at him. Just seeing their reaction Ron again made Harry deliberately shift towards Malfoy. Ron's face darkened at the movement.

"Follow me," said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them outside.

As they marched off across the dark grounds, Filch began to terrorise them with graphic descriptions of the 'old style' of punishing students, lovingly reminiscing chains and dungeons, which only made Harry suspect that their punishment must be something really horrible, or Filch wouldn't be sounding so delighted.

The moon was bright but the clouds scudding across it kept throwing them into darkness. Ahead, Harry could see the lighted windows of Hagrid's hut. Then they heard a distant shout.

"Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started."

Harry's heart dropped; why did it have to be _Hagrid_? He'd been going so well on the anti-Gryffindor front and now this. Malfoy seemed to share his displeasure, pale lips thinning into a sharp line. On the other hand, Ron seemed relieved, but Filch swooped down onto the Gryffindor's elation immediately.

"I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that oaf?" he hissed at Ron. "Well think again, boy – it's into the Forest you're going and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece."

Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks.

"The Forest?" he repeated sharply. "We can't go in there at night – there are all sorts of things in there – werewolves, I heard."

Hermione whimpered and clutched Harry's arm while Ron whitened, eyes suddenly glued to the dark treeline.

"That's your lookout, isn't it?" said Filch, his voice cracking with glee. "Should've thought of them werewolves before you got into trouble, shouldn't you?"

At that moment Hagrid came striding towards them out of the dark, his boarhound Fang at his heels. He was carrying a large crossbow, and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder.

"About time," he said. "I bin waitin' fer half an hour already. All right Harry, Ron?"

Harry was saved from having to answer as Filch cut in coldly. He chanced a look at Malfoy, but it was too dark to read his face properly. Harry swallowed and turned back to the adults as Hagrid dismissed Filch, who couldn't resist a final remark.

"I'll be back at dawn for what's left of them" Filch said nastily as he started back towards the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the darkness.

As Hagrid told them to split into two groups, Harry turned to Malfoy, intent on grouping with him so they could finally talk in private, but Malfoy stepped up beside Ron with a sharp smile. Cold dread shivered up Harry’s spine; he knew that look. Malfoy had punished Harry for the dragon incident by ensuring he was a social pariah, now it was Ron Weasley's turn.

As the two boys trotted away with Fang in the lead, Harry silently prayed that neither of them ended up dead.

 

 

 

The Forest was silent and still. Nothing stirred in the darkness as they made their way down the path, eyes on the ground. Every now and then a ray of moonlight through the branches above lit a spot of silver-blue blood on the fallen leaves.

Fang seemed perfectly at ease, sniffing at tree trunks and bushes, his tail wagging happily. Draco hurried to keep the boarhound in sight, wand held high as the dog continually slipped from the glow of his wand and into the surrounding darkness, only to reappear ahead as a looming shadow.

The stillness of the night was broken with a loud yelp. Draco spun around; heart in his mouth and wand aloft, but it was only the Weasel, sprawled on the ground.

Draco sneered at the fallen boy. "It's good to know how clumsy you are, Weasley. Should we have to flee anything, at least I'll know I'll outrun you."

Weasley got up with a glare. "If you outrun me it's only ‘cause Slytherins have so much practice at running away," he snapped. Draco raised his brows. Was the Weasel trying to match him in a battle of wits? Well then.

"Are you trying to call me a coward? Because I’m not stupid enough to stick around if something in here tries to kill me? Or do mean doing something like sneaking around behind people’s backs? If you’re trying to insult me, at least put in a little effort, that was pathetic!”

"Big talk for a scaredy cat. You weren't so sure of yourself earlier."

Draco shrugged. "That's because I'm smart enough to be wary of potentially dangerous things, a concept I'm sure is quite foreign to a Gryffindor. I pity the fools who don't have enough brains to be afraid, they often don't last long."

"You, smart? Puh-lease. Everyone can see that Granger is twelve times smarter than you."

"Says the boy who probably doesn't even know his twelve times table. And I didn't say I was the smartest, just smart, though I'm not surprised a maggot-brained idiot didn't realise that."

Weasley was furious, trembling with anger as he curled and uncurled his fists. Draco smirked and turned to go; satisfied he had the last word. Fang had moved on further down the track, night eyes glinting in the gloom. He opened his mouth to call the dog back, but the Weasel just couldn't let things go.

"If you're so smart and I'm so dumb, how come Harry still chose me over you?"

Draco stopped dead in his tracks. That was too low a blow for him to let slide. He'd assumed after the dragon fiasco that Weasley had given up on Potter, but apparently not. Well, that changed things. He had been planning on scaring the Weasel as punishment, but it looked like Draco was going to have to teach the redhead his proper place.

He wheeled around to face the Gryffindor, who looked smug in the face of Draco's ire. Weasley stopped smirking when Draco pointed his wand at the other's face.

"Haven't you realised it yet?" Draco said softly, eyes trained on the other boy. "You've lost. In the end, Harry chose me. _He chose me!_ He needed your help, yes, but when you were no longer useful you were discarded like the garbage you are. Harry wants _me_ , not you; _I'm_ the one he cares about."

He smiled coldly in the face of the Weasel's growing fury.

"It's _you_ who's jealous of _me_ , because I'm the one who's special to Harry Potter, I'm the friend of the Boy-Who-Lived, and you're just a nobody, the least impressive of his more talented brothers and the son of a blood traitor. You may have thought you could get in good with Harry first before anyone else, but you see, I met him long before you did. I was the first real wizard he ever met, and I became his first true friend, I was the first and always will be. You can never beat me Weasley, Harry's _mine_."

Weasley lost it. "HARRY IS NOT SOME TOY YOU OWN, MALFOY!" he bellowed, lunging at Draco, but a physical attack wasn't going to work twice; Draco had gotten the measure of the Gryffindor from their fight at the Quidditch match and he was ready this time.

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ " he cried, and Weasley’s limbs snapped together mid spring, sending him crashing to the ground once more.

Draco laughed, twirling his wand as he nudged the fallen boy onto his back.

"You're right, Harry is no toy," he smiled down into the Weasel's frozen face. Only his eyes remained moving, and they glared up at Draco with untold fury. "But he _does_ belong to me."

No longer smiling, he pointed his wand at the Gryffindor. "And its high time I teach you a lesson about touching what isn't yours."

 

 

 

In all honesty, Draco didn't care one jot if that oaf of a gamekeeper was mad at him. All that mattered now was that everything was once again in its proper place.

Light bounced off the thick tree trunks, the Forest alight as they shot spell after spell at one another. Weasley was good at duelling, enough to fire a stinging hex the second Draco lifted his spell, but he immediately collapsed again, unable to stand from the Dancing Feet Jinx. Fang, seeing an easy target, bounded back to them, baying madly as he jumped on the fallen redhead and licked and slobbered over every available inch. For good measure, Draco fired a quick _Melofors_ and had to lean against a tree trunk in order to stay vertical as he howled with laughter at the pumpkin that rapidly encased Weasley’s head.

The fun didn't end there, as Hagrid made a timely arrival but was unable to remove the jinx himself and had to have Draco end it. Only the threat of expulsion made him comply, but the complete control of the moment had been exquisite nonetheless. Even better, Weasley hadn't ratted to Hagrid that they had been fighting, though it was obvious enough to anyone with half a brain, but the gamekeeper was clearly more concerned with the unicorn than their tomfoolery that he said nothing, angrily ordering them to follow as he stomped back the way he came. Clearly, the oaf no longer trusted them to be alone, but Draco was more than happy to rejoin Potter and Granger. Revenge _did_ taste sweet.

He and the Weasel were shooting glares at one another behind Hagrid's enormous back when screams echoed through the Forest. Red sparks lit the night sky and Hagrid immediately tore off without a word. Heart in his throat, Draco didn't hesitate to run after him. There was no way he was going to let his only protection out of his sight now. Dashing through the thick trees, he cursed Hagrid leaving Granger and Potter alone. If they were hurt –

And then Potter was there, shivering and pale beside an equally shaken Granger, astride a palomino centaur with white-blonde hair.

As soon as he caught sight of Draco, Potter slid off the centaur's back and flung himself, trembling, into Draco's arms. Granger barely managed to explain what happened, fighting back sobs as she told Hagrid of the unicorn and the blood-drinking cloaked figure. The centaur, Firenze, took over when Granger choked, tears running down her cheeks. Draco silently held out an arm and Granger fell onto his shoulder, sobbing into his cloak as Harry disengaged one arm to hug her as well.

Looking between Potter and Granger's heads, Draco caught the eye of the sour-faced Weasel as he watched the three of them embrace. Not looking away, Draco pulled them both firmly into his embrace, smirking in triumph.

Weasley turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want Ron to be happy, but I also want him to suffer. This is because he's my favourite. I also love writing possessive Draco, he's such a little shit.


	5. Tell the Truth!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, this chapter is plot heavy, but after this, the plot is finally going to diverge a bit more dramatically from canon events and we can properly focus on the ~romance~ of my two favourite thick-headed boys.

The lake looked tantalising cool, sunlight sparkling on the water like thousands of tiny diamonds. Choosing to study out on the grounds had seemed like a good idea at the time, a chance to enjoy the sunshine and have a clear head after the stuffiness of the library full of cramming students. It had been easier than Harry expected to coax Malfoy out onto the grounds, eager as he was to get away from Hermione, and here Harry had a perfect view of the Forbidden Forest, although he didn’t mention this aspect to the other boy.

There was no hooded vampire-monster bursting from the trees, but Harry couldn’t escape the feeling that something was wrong. Hagrid had refused to give any more information about the creature that had drunk the unicorn blood that night in the Forest, and the cryptic clues from Firenze hadn’t shed any light on the matter. Harry had resolved to ask Professor Quirrell about it, but he’d barely had a chance since exams had begun. Now, with his final two exams tomorrow, he might finally have his chance to understand more about the creature and why ever since the encounter his scar had been aching.

But first, exams.

Harry sighed, rolling up his sleeves and glared hard at his pineapple. He jabbed it hard. It merely rolled over.

“Having difficulties, Potter?” Malfoy drawled from the shade of the nearby tree. _His_ pineapple did a little pirouette.

Blowing a raspberry was stupidly childish, but Harry did it anyway, annoyed at the little show-off. And the tapdancing pineapple was annoying too. So far, his own pineapple had managed to do a sort-of crabwalk for about a foot before collapsing under its own weight. Maintaining the spell was half of his exam marks, and so far, he couldn’t bloody manage it.

Malfoy yawned loudly, settling down against the tree trunk to watch Harry’s efforts lazily. “You haven’t said it yet,” he said as Harry’s pineapple wobbled across the grass.

“Said what,” Harry replied, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“Anyone else would have said it already,” Malfoy continued, rummaging in his bag before pulling out a chocolate frog with a flourish. “Right after the Forest would have been best. I’ve been waiting for it, but you never said it. I’ve been acting like you’ll say it really soon, but you haven’t, and if you won’t _actually_ say it, well…”

Gritting his teeth, Harry looked up to meet that silver stare. He’d been putting ‘it’ off for a reason. Although he’d had plenty of practise, Harry had never felt comfortable saying it; his years with the Dursley’s engrained within him an automatic distaste for it, even though it was something expected of him, but he’d never said the words without a sharp shard of resentment lodging in his chest. And even though he had to, _owed_ it to Malfoy, still the words refused to come out. But this is what people did, what _friends_ did.

Swallowing back the angry bitterness, Harry focused on his memory of the Forest, of that comforting warmth as Malfoy wrapped his arms around him and hugged him close. The whispered words of comfort in his ear as fear threatened to shake him apart. The steady smile as Malfoy guided them back to the Common Room, keeping him close, making him feel _safe_.

Harry breathed deeply, and looked Malfoy straight in the eyes. He could do this, because this time, the words _meant_ something.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling the strength of those words for the first time, could see the truth of them reflected in Malfoy’s silver eyes. “For the lies, and… and for not trusting you. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back like that, I know that now. And I’m seriously sorry about getting you into trouble. I’m just… I’m sorry, okay.”

Unable to maintain eye contact, Harry looked away, willing away the fluttering resentment that was curling in his chest. His scar prickled again. It wasn’t the same, he told himself firmly. This isn’t like apologising for some accident he caused or for some lie that Dudley had pinned on him, this was different, this was an apology that he _meant_. This wasn’t him saying sorry because it was expected of him, but because he _was_ sorry. Even so, the shame was too familiar, too much like being with the Dursleys, embarrassed for his own actions, embarrassed at simply being himself, for his own weak, needy heart.

When a full minute dragged by without a word, Harry at last glanced back. Malfoy was watching him with a hooded gaze, only a tiny smirk confirming his satisfaction at his words.

“Well,” he said slowly once Harry had met his gaze, “I _suppose_ I can forgive you after such a _nice_ apology.”

Harry let out a sigh, tension finally easing in his shoulders.

“But I think you might have to make it up to me,” Malfoy continued, grinning at Harry’s sharp look.

“You couldn’t just take the apology, could you?” Harry grumbled, poking his pineapple sharply – it did a somersault and landed with a thud. Throwing his hands in the air, Harry gave up and crawled over to fling himself down next to Malfoy under the shade.

“Merlin, you skin is hot,” Malfoy whined, elbowing Harry away, who only grinned and pressed his sun warmed hands against Malfoy’s cool cheeks. “Potter, will you kindly piss off! I’m warning you, I’ll hex you, don’t think I won’t!”

Harry settled back with a grin, pleased to see Malfoy’s pale face flushing pink. “As if you would.”

Malfoy blushed very easily, Harry thought lazily, studying the rosy stain that spread across all that pale skin. It was nice, watching him turn red, a little physical proof of how much Harry could get under his skin, a little badge of honour that he meant something to Malfoy, even if he was still figuring out how exactly to elicit such a response. The oddest things seemed to draw out the colour in Malfoy’s face, little innocuous moments where his gaze would skitter from Harry’s and that tell-tale redness would spread over his sharp features. But there was one way Harry had suspected was guaranteed to get Malfoy to blush, and Harry had been waiting for the perfect moment to do this, away from the prying eyes of the others. He wanted this moment for himself.

“Draco,” he said, catching his attention with the rare use of his first name. Harry pulled the thin parcel from his robes, the wrapping warm from his body heat. “I know this is late, but I didn’t really get the chance this morning.” He took a breath, and pressed the parcel into Malfoy’s hands. “Happy birthday.”

Malfoy blinked. And blinked again. He slowly looked down at the parcel. “You…” he said, and then stopped, blinking rapidly. He fumbled with the silver ribbon. “Well, about time!” he finally managed, but Harry grinned – two spots of brilliant crimson were staining Malfoy’s cheeks.

“It’s not much,” Harry said as Malfoy tore open the paper and stared at the black and bronze pheasant feather quill.

“No, its…it’s perfect,” Malfoy breathed, his expression curiously vulnerable.

Now it was Harry’s turn to blush. Malfoy seemed just as thrilled with his gift as he had over the set of solid gold Gobstones his parents had sent him.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Yes, I really- I mean, er, it’s very… useful! Yes, because pheasant quills are… excellent good luck charm for exams. They’re supposed to be great for improving memory.”

Harry blinked slowly. “They are?”

“Of course, they are, it’s a well-known fact!” Malfoy said defensively. “I’ll obviously have to use it for the rest of my exams.”

“Well, good thing I got it for you then,” Harry grinned. It shouldn’t be so charming, watching Malfoy lie through his teeth, but he didn’t mind. He could see the words lurking behind that lie, the words Malfoy wouldn’t say. Harry smiled, resting against the tree, the soft brush of Malfoy’s arm against his own. It felt good, caring and being cared for in return. This friendship thing wasn’t half bad.

 

 

 

The end of the exams was a welcome relief to the Slytherin Common Room. Despite the usual tension of exam week, the spirit of competition had been going strong, as Malfoy and Hermione had become engaged in a contest of wills, each determined to outrank the other in the exams, and the rest of the house had happily begun a sweepstake on who would triumph: pureblood or mudblood? Harry had determinedly remained neutral for his own personal welfare.

Their very last exam was History of Magic. Hermione and Malfoy almost seemed to be racing as their quills sped over the parchment, finishing long before the hour was up and refusing to cheer with the others when Professor Binns told them to put their quills down and roll up their parchment.

Even as they joined the crowds flocking out into the sunny grounds, both were still loudly going through their exam papers, Harry sandwiched in-between them as they compared answers. For whatever mad reason, Harry had assumed that now that the exams were over they could relax, but clearly, he was being naïve. Joining the others in the shade of the tree by the lake, Harry desperately tried to zone out their voices; it was too nice a day to be concentrating on school work anymore than necessary, particularly having finally finished their exams.

Lying back on the grass, Harry absently rubbed his forehead, his scar twinging with pain as Malfoy argued that Gaspard Shingleton’s prior work with as a chef was a useful point in question twenty-three and Hermione tried to shout him down. Closing his eyes drowsily, Harry let his mind wander as the two continued to bicker, the rest of the first years egging both of them on.

They were free, free for a whole wonderful week until their exam results came out, and he had every intention of enjoying it.

His scar twinged.

Despite the warmth of the day, Harry shivered as a thought slithered across his mind like a cloud across the sun. _It's a warning... it means danger's coming_.

Harry woke with a start, a high cold scream still ringing in his ears. Heart pounding, Harry pressed his glasses to his face, squinting in the faint green light that served as the only illumination in the dormitory. He could just make out the outlines of Malfoy and Greg curled in their beds, their curtains left undrawn. Nothing stirred in the room; all the other boys were fast asleep.

Still, Harry felt unsettled. He was filled with a restless energy, as though he'd forgotten something, something important he had to do. Resigning himself to not getting back to sleep, he tiptoed from the dormitory.

Harry crept into the Common Room and sat down at the table Malfoy usually commandeered for himself. His set of gold Gobstones still sat there where he'd been showing off before bed and Harry absently picked up one of them, distractedly tossing the heavy metal sphere from one hand to the other.

Unable to sit still, Harry stood and begun to pace, hoping to work off whatever was eating at him. This was _ridiculous_ , he though angrily. Why was he feeling all worked up _now_? The exams were over and nothing bad had happened despite all his misgivings. Maybe because he hadn’t spoken to Professor Quirrell yet, despite the calm of the past week, was what was still nagging at his mind, yes, that had to be it.

Harry glanced at his watch, weighing the odds. It was late, far too late, and he’d just finished with being punished from his previous late night venture. But perhaps, since it was the end of the exams, and a Friday night to boot. He knew several of the older students were still out, celebrating down at Hogsmeade under the supervision of half the eagle-eyed teachers. The castle was practically empty. Plus, he had the cloak. Harry’s scar was still prickling, a nagging ache that had been building all week that set his teeth on edge. He could chance it.

“Ah, Potter.”

Harry almost jumped out of his skin, whirling around to face Professor Snape, automatically slipping the Gobstone into his pocket lest he be accused of theft. Snape stood by the open entrance wall, watching him coolly.

"Sir?" Harry responded automatically with feigned innocence, not even bothering to wonder why Snape was there at such an hour. He'd always assumed his head of house had a secret radar for picking up when Harry was doing something he probably shouldn't.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Come with me, Potter" he said, already turning. "There is a matter of grave importance I have to discuss with you."

"Right now?" asked Harry, the Gobstone heavy in his pyjama pocket.

Snape paused in the entrance doorway, his dark eyes glittering coldly. "Is that a problem with you, Potter?" he said silkily. His tone held no room for argument and Harry hastened to follow with a mumbled "No, sir."

Snape led him through the winding passages, the light of his wand casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. Harry shivered.

They reached dungeon five, Snape opening the door with a curt "In". Harry shivered again as he stood in the empty classroom, the stale smell of old potions tickling his nose. He'd been hoping they were going to Snape's office, which mercifully had a fireplace; none of the dungeons had any heating and thus at night could drop to freezing temperatures.

"Sir?" Harry asked, rubbing his arms to ward off the chill of the dungeon. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Snape leaned on the door, eyeing Harry in silence. "I don't suppose this can be done without him, Master?" Snape tilted his head to the side, eyes unfocused. "No," he said at last. “The boy is key. I understand, Master.” His expression sagged with displeasure, and then continued to sag, the flesh melting, bubbling like hot wax, face distorting into something else. Someone else.

Harry took a step back in alarm, a scream in his throat, but Quirrell had already lifted his wand and then Harry was falling into the darkness.

 

 

 

At least, Harry consoled himself as he was dragged across the cold cobblestones, he hadn’t gone to see Professor Quirrell like he’d planned. A present, gift-wrapped and delivered straight to his doorstep. Malfoy would have laughed himself silly to see Harry waltz into the office of the one person in Hogwarts out to kill him, although considering Harry had vaguely suspected Snape of being the one out to get him, and then blindly following him around the deserted castle in the middle of the night wasn’t really much better, even if he wasn’t really Snape at all.

"Look into the mirror and tell me what you see."

What he saw was himself kneeing Quirrell in the balls, grabbing his wand and cursing his teacher into oblivion. No wait, that was just his own fantasy. He bit back a hysterical giggle. Now was not the time to panic. Doing so before had just gotten him hit by a Stinging Hex before Quirrell untied and thrown him across the room to land in a heap.

"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Harry refocused on the mirror before him.

It was easy enough to figure out how the Mirror worked; the strange inscription at the top was just written backwards and spaced differently, any child over nine could see that. Harry had foolishly cut off Quirrell's explanation by telling him so, only to receive a hard slap in the face for that.

" _I show not your face but your heart's desire"._ Straightforward enough. But he'd been expecting something more than this though, because at the moment, all he saw was his own reflection.

"I just see you and me," Harry finally responded, but when Quirrell raised his wand angrily, he hastily continued. "It's true! I swear that's really all I see. It looks just like a normal mirror would, nothing different at all."

Quirrell frowned at him then at the mirror, before he cursed under his breath.

"I see. The threat of death means that your heart's desire is your own continued existence," Quirrell growled mostly to himself. "But how to fix that? What should I do, Master?"

A voice answered, seemingly from Quirrell himself, but his lips weren't moving. "Let me speak to him... face to face..."

Quirrell didn't seem at all startled to hear a voice issuing from his vicinity. "Master, you are not yet strong enough!"

The high voice spoke again. "I have strength enough... for this..."

Harry couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away; Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter..." it whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backwards, but his legs would move. He knew that face, knew it from the shadow of a dream, a whisper of memory, familiar and terrible.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapour... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds... Unicorn blood has strengthened me these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the Forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own... Now... why don't you take another look in that mirror... Help me, and I shall spare your life... if not... I'm sure Quirrell can... persuade you."

Harry's legs shook. There was no doubt that if he did not do as the face said, Quirrell would torture him. But if he did, then Lord Voldemort would rise once more. His mind raced as he tried to think of something, _anything_ , that would get him out of this.

Quirrell half turned and raised his wand.

"OK!" Harry shouted. "I'll do as you say."

"Good boy," the voice hissed, the snake-like face now hidden from view as Quirrell steered Harry back in front of the mirror. "Now, look into the mirror Harry, and find me the Stone."

Once again, Harry looked into the mirror, and just as before, he saw nothing but his own scared reflection.

"Concentrate your thoughts, Harry," the cold voice said softly, the advice slithering through the air, penetrating Harry’s flesh and seeping below like tattoo, like poison. His mind grew hazy for a moment, the room swimming as that voice crooned to him, “Think on what you desire most. You wish for me to let you live, to reward you with your life, more than you deserve after what you did to me all those years ago. But am I not merciful? I will spare your life, if you do as I say. Do not make the same mistake as your mother did, Harry do not refuse the generosity of Lord Voldemort. Choose to save yourself, and you will be safe. You want to please Lord Voldemort, do you not?”

Screwing up his face, Harry focused with all his might. 'Work,' he thought desperately. 'Show me my stupid heart's desire before I get myself killed.'

And then his reflection moved without him.

It winked at Harry before it called silently over its shoulder. Quirrell came into view, looking eager, but when Harry glanced over his own shoulder, the real Quirrell was still standing in the shadows, watching him closely. Harry turned back to the mirror. His reflection pointed to the side, still speaking to reflection-Quirrell, who hurried towards the mirror then disappeared around the edge and didn't reappear.

"The Mirror showed me that you need to go behind it," he told Quirrell.

Quirrell, like his mirror-image, looked exited and hurried behind the gilded frame. "And then?" he called, hidden behind the enormous mirror.

"Hold on," Harry said, refocusing on his reflection again. The reflection grinned and put its hand into its pocket and winked. Harry did the same. And then he smiled.

"Potter, what now?" shouted Quirrell impatiently. Harry ignored him. Approaching the mirror, Harry placed a hand on the smooth surface as his reflection did the same. He half expected to feel warm flesh, not glass.

"Potter?" Quirrell snarled. "What's going–"

Harry raised his fist, the solid gold Gobstone singing through the air as he brought it against the mirror with all his strength. His reflection disappeared into a thousand lines, the glass splintering with a thunderous crack.

Harry was already running towards the door as Quirrell and Voldemort screamed in rage, years of Harry Hunting letting him dodge the jet of light as he lunged, yanking the door handled back.

It didn’t open.

A hand clamped around his wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in two. He yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head lessened – he looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone and saw him huddled in pain, looking at his fingers – they were blistering before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands around Harry's neck – Harry's scar was almost blinding him with pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.

"Master, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!"

And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go of his neck and stared, bewildered at his own palms – Harry could see they looked burnt, raw, red and shiny.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell pulled out his wand, but Harry was faster, reaching up to dig his fingers into Quirrell's face –

Screaming, he lurched back, clutching at his blistering flesh, grip slackening enough for Harry to wriggle free. Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed again and tried to throw him off, but Harry hung on tight; he was not about to let himself be killed, not by Quirrell and certainly not by Voldemort, not this time, when he actually was able to fight back. Hermione and Malfoy were waiting for him.

Quirrell collapsed to the ground and this time Harry was the one pining _him_. Harry barely registered the terrible shrieking as his fingers scrabbled to hold onto Quirrell's face; the pain in Harry's head throbbed with his heartbeat, and his only thought was that of survival. His teacher writhed on the floor, hands desperately trying to claw at Harry.

Lifting his right arm from Quirrell's face, Harry caught his pyjama sleeve in between his teeth and ripped. Forearm now bare, he released Quirrell's face and caught the flailing hands, pining them to the floor with his naked right arm, leaving his left free to tear at the neck of Quirrell's robes until he met flesh.

He splayed his fingers, felt the screams more than heard them; Quirrell's screams drowned out anything Voldemort was saying as Harry fought against his own pain, left hand pressed flat against Quirrell's chest, directly over his heart.

And then his scar split open, agony flinging Harry to the ground, clutching his forehead, sure that his head had been cleaved in two. A voice was in his head, whispering, hissing, laughing beneath the pain.

" _You destroyed my servant and my Stone, Harry Potter. Lord Voldemort is most displeased. But you have killed once more. Killed_ me _once more. A born murderer. We shall meet again, little serpent, but how many more will you have killed by then? After all, to kill is your destiny Harry. Our destiny... together..."_

Then the pain swallowed him up and Harry fell into blackness, down... down... down...

 

 

 

Something gold was glinting just above him. He blinked. It was a pair of glasses. How strange. He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him.

"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore.

Harry stared at him. Then he remembered. "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! On his head, a face! I mean, another face! Sir, quick–"

"Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times," said Dumbledore. "Quirrell does not have the Stone."

"No, you see, the face, it was _his_ face, he wanted the Stone, and Quirrell–"

"Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out."

Harry swallowed and looked around him. He was in the hospital wing, lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half a sweet-shop.

"Tokens from your friends," said Dumbledore with a smile. "What happened between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret of course, but your house has always been very good at learning of things they should not."

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days. Miss Granger and Mr Malfoy will be most relieved you have come around; they have been extremely worried."

Harry was silent for a long moment, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. "But sir, the Stone. He wanted- they wanted it, and I couldn’t. I shattered the Mirror, sir."

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed, and yes, in doing so you destroyed the Stone. But for the best, as I’d rather not have let Lord Voldemort get his hands on it.”

"But sir," said Harry slowly. "What about Quirrell? Did he escape?"

At this, Dumbledore frowned, the twinkle in his blue eyes vanishing. "Quirrell… did not survive your encounter. The damage you inflicted overwhelmed him, and Voldemort left him to die."

Harry frowned, an itch prickling at the skin of his bandaged hands.

“So Vol– ... I mean, You-Know-Who killed him?”

Dumbledore’s blue gaze flickered slightly. "Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. And as for Quirrell…” Dumbledore paused again, expression curiously blank. “Voldemort did not allow his servant to live after failing him.”

Harry fingers twitched, the ghost of a memory stirring. He shook his head, bemused. "Sir, there are some other things I'd like to know, if you can tell me... things I want to know the truth about."

"The truth" Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions to the best of my ability, unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case, I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."

Harry frowned. That sounded like a very roundabout way of saying he _wouldn’t_ tell the truth.

"Well... Voldemort said that he would spare me if I helped him. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?"

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.

"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know one day... put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older... I know you hate to hear this... when you are ready, you will know."

If he had said this to Harry a year ago, he may have simply accepted the refusal, but now, after Quirrell and the Stone and bloody Voldemort on the back of a person’s head, well, that kind of poor excuse was not going to cut it. Twice now Voldemort had tried to kill him and whatever reason he had in wanting Harry dead was something he most definitely _did_ want to know. He wasn't about to let Voldemort have a third go at offing him without knowing _why_.

"But if Voldemort's still out there, won’t he try to kill me again?"

"I'm sorry, Harry, but you are much too young to know the truth of this."

"My parents _died_ because of him; he _killed_ them. Killed them so he could get to _me_. What possible reason did he have for wanting to kill me, a baby? Tell me the truth!"

This last sentence was half shouted across the empty hospital wing. Harry felt hot, his skin prickling with anger and embarrassment. Dumbledore said nothing, looking at Harry with a sad frown. Despite his shame for yelling, Harry didn't look away from the probing blue eyes. He had the right to _know_ , and Dumbledore damn well knew that. Being young was no excuse.

At last, Dumbledore looked away, staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought. Finally, he spoke, eyes still trained on the cloudless sky.

"It was not my intention to tell you this until you were much older, but, due to recent events, I cannot rightfully deny you the truth if you insist on knowing. However, I will say this: the truth is a most heavy burden, Harry, one which may affect you strongly. By denying you the truth, I hope to protect you from this."

Harry smiled slightly. "Thank you, sir, but the last time someone kept the truth from me, I spent ten years with my horrible relatives who punished me every time something weird happened and who told me my parents died in a car crash. Finding out my parents were murdered was horrible, I'm not saying it wasn't. But still, knowing the truth is better than living some lie. That's how I feel, anyway. I don't want to be kept in the dark anymore. Never again."

Dumbledore shook his head with a slight smile. "You are too brave by half, Harry. You would have done well in Gryffindor." Harry blushed, failing to not be pleased. “Now Harry, what I am going to tell you, I would ask that you keep this to yourself, for your own safety, as well as those you care about. Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child because of a prophecy made shortly before your birth. He set out to kill you when you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the terms of the prophecy."

"A prophecy?" said Harry, nonplussed.

Dumbledore leaned back and closed his eyes. " _'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power that the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...'_ "

Harry digested these words in silence. _'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord'._ So, he was supposed to be the one destined to _kill_ Lord Voldemort? Well, so far the odds seemed to be in his favour. But it was the next part that worried him. _'He will have a power that the Dark Lord knows not'_. Now _that_ sounded rather sketchy. Harry had only learnt he was even capable to magic less than a year ago, and he was supposed to have a power that the most feared wizard of his time didn't?

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said very quietly, for Dumbledore, still sitting with his eyes closed, seemed completely lost in thought. "I think that prophecy is wrong. I mean, what possible power could _I_ have that Voldemort doesn't? And why me anyway? I'm not smart like Hermione, or–"

Dumbledore reopened his eyes and shook his head sadly. "The prophecy said, ' _a power the Dark Lord knows not'_. Voldemort understands many things, but one of the most important branches of magic resides in something he places little importance with. However, it is this magic that saved you from the Killing Curse that fateful night, that made Quirrell incapable of touching you without causing himself severe pain."

Harry leaned forward eagerly. "What is that, sir?"

"Love, Harry. Oh, you may look like that," Dumbledore said with a smile at Harry's incredulous look. "But it was out of love that your mother died to save you, and such a powerful love as that of your mother for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign... to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, who shared his body and soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason."

"Just love?" Harry said, annoyed. "That's the only thing I have over Voldemort? My mother's love?"

Dumbledore's smile widened. "Do not underestimate such a power, Harry, or you'll be making the same mistake as Voldemort did, and that proved to be his downfall."

Harry felt rather insulted at being compared to Voldemort.

"So now what?" asked Harry. "This prophecy, or whatever, says I have to kill Voldemort. So do I have to undergo special anti-Dark Lord training or something?"

Chuckling, Dumbledore stood. "I'm afraid Hogwarts doesn't offer any courses like that. Harry, that prophecy was only put into motion because Voldemort _chose_ to give it significance. Had he simply ignored it, Voldemort would not have been defeated when you were a baby, and you would not have the power that protects you from him. You may choose to devote all your days to studying how to defeat Voldemort, or you may choose to ignore what you learned today and simply return to living as you did before. It is up to you. And now I must let you rest, or else Madam Pomfrey will no longer admit me into the hospital wing."

With a small bow, Dumbledore strode away, leaving Harry to contemplate everything he'd just been told.

So he did have a choice then. The Dark Lord or a normal school life.

His scar prickled, a whisper on the wind that brought with it the smell of burning flesh, of jubilant, furious laughter. And the feeling of something important that lay just out of reach, beyond the dark haze of his jumbled memories. Harry shrugged away the thought, grabbing the large box of Chocolate Cauldrons and digging in.

The Dark Lord or a normal school life. Like there was even a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My rationale is that Dumbly-door would be a lot more cautious with Slytherin!Harry because of that Riddle-shaped elephant in the room, hence why he spilled the beans about the prophecy early on, especially since Hazza is getting cozier with one Mr. Malfoy, whose daddy knows all the things. So yeah... plot. Kinda.
> 
> But with the next chapter, we can get back to them boys discovering the magic of Feelings.


	6. What is this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, my darlings, there was originally a huge subplot that I decided to make into a separate fic, so the plot needed a little tweaking. Hopefully the publication pace can pick up a bit now.

Despite there being many noteworthy contenders in the past, in Harry's humble opinion, his twelfth easily took the cake in being _the_ Worst Birthday. And when he said 'cake', he meant it in a purely metaphorical sense, because the very idea of the Dursleys _ever_ giving him something as nice as a cake on any occasion was laughable.

Not that Harry felt like laughing. He’d been thinking, perhaps incorrectly, that after how nice Christmas had been, that maybe his friends would send him a card, or even a letter wishing him a happy birthday. The letters he’d written to Ron had received no reply, which wasn’t _that_ surprising after the mess he put him through last year, but even Malfoy hadn’t replied to his letters, despite him being adamant that Harry write to him over the summer.

Feeling well within his rights to a good sulk, Harry slunk into his room with every intention of flinging himself on the bed to have a nice long mope, but even his sulking was ruined by a very unexpected guest.

Harry did not feel like laughing at the moment. And, taking a departure from the rest of the day, he did not feel miserable, exhausted _or_ lonely.

Right now, he was feeling rather homicidal.

Aunt Petunia's masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. Dobby was crouched on top of the fridge, looking meaningfully from the pudding to Harry.

"Don't even think about it, Dobby," warned Harry quietly. "Don't even try it."

"Harry Potter must say he's not going back to school –"

"Dobby, I'm warning you..."

"Say it, sir..."

Grinding his teeth, Harry glanced furtively over his shoulder to listening to the chatter in the dining room. The drone of conversation and clinking of silverware continued – it seemed no one had noticed anything. He turned back to Dobby and eyed the floating dessert. This was going to have to be handled very delicately.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry forced himself to smile again. "Dobby," he whispered gently, advancing on the fridge with measured steps. "If you put that pudding back right now, I won't be angry. Then we can go back upstairs and have a nice, quiet talk."

Dobby shook his head sadly. "No. Harry Potter must swear he is not going back to Hogwarts."

"Fine," Harry said slowly, eyes fixed on the floating pudding. "If it's really _that_ important, I won't go back to Hogwarts. Now, put that back Dobby."

Harry might have felt bad about lying to the house-elf, if said house-elf hadn't stolen his friends' letters and blackmailed him with dessert. As it was, he was internally chanting the mantra " _He's crazy, but he means well_ " to ensure he didn't do anything violent to Dobby… at least until they were back in his bedroom.

Dobby cocked his head with a considering look at the pudding floating directly in front of him. Harry eyed the dessert desperately, wondering if he should chance grabbing for the dish; but it was still up by the ceiling and at least a good few feet away.

"But..." said Dobby slowly, "Dobby must make _sure_ ; for Harry Potter's safety."

Harry realised what he was going to do a second too late; he dived forwards as the pudding fell to the floor, felt the cool slide of glass wet with condensation slip between his outstretched fingers, crashing to the ground with a resounding bang. Cream splattered the walls and windows as the dish shattered, covering Harry head to foot in Aunt Petunia's pudding. There was a ringing silence from the dining room.

Twisting around with Quidditch-honed reflexes, Harry lunged for the house-elf with murder in his eyes.

Harry barely managed to wrap his fingers around Dobby's ankle when he felt it twist away from him and he redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything went black; he was being pressed very hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull, and then –

He gasped for air and opened his streaming eyes. He felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a few seconds before he realised that the kitchen of number four, Privet Drive had vanished.

He was sprawled on a thick, rich crimson carpet that covered most of the stone floor of what appeared to be a large hallway. The figures in the portraits lining the walls shifted in their frames to sneer down at him, so that at least told Harry that he’d landed in a wizarding house. An enormous marble fireplace blazed on the right, large enough for a grown man to stand inside. A magnificent grandfather clock stood beside the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall, but there were no numbers Harry could read, the silver symbols resembling things he vaguely remembered from his Astronomy textbook. Harry was beginning to feel slightly self-conscious that he was just sitting there on an obviously expensive carpet covered in sugared violets and cream.

The silence was shattered by a very loud, high-pitched squeal, the house-elf’s luminous eyes bulging as he pointed incredulously at Harry.

"Harry Potter, sir!" shrieked Dobby. "This is a most dangerous place, sir; Harry Potter is in grave danger here. He must return to his home at once!"

Springing to his feet, Harry dodged the house-elf’s frantic hands. “Oh really? You except me to trust you after that stunt you just pulled?” Harry snarled.

"Dobby must return Harry Potter to his family before –"

The decision was taken out of his hands when a cold voice came from behind him. "What is this?"

Dobby jumped in terror before sinking into a bow so deep his long, thin nose touched the floor.

Pale, sharp-boned face.

Silvery blonde hair.

Cold grey eyes.

“Malfoy!” shouted Harry with relief. The name sprung to Harry’s lips before he truly processed what he was seeing.

Raising a pale eyebrow, the wizard eyed Harry from head to toe. "I don’t believe I’ve had the honour of meeting you before, Mr Potter. And while I am most pleased to meet you at last, that does little in the way of explaining why you are currently in my house."

Harry scrambled for a reply that could possibly explain away why he was trespassing and covered in dessert. "Sorry, Mr Malfoy, there's been a mistake," said Harry, trying hard to hide his mortification. "It was an accident that I came here... Er, it's nice to meet you, sir," said Harry rather sheepishly. "My name's Harry Potter, sir, I'm a friend of Malfoy… er, of Draco's."

Trying to mask his sudden embarrassment at meeting his best friend's father as he was, he bowed. A dollop of cream slid from his nose onto the plush carpet. He winced.

Mr Malfoy blinked slowly. "I am aware,” he said coolly, frown beginning to mar his smooth brow. “That does not quite explain how you managed to enter my house without my knowledge or consent.”

 _Finally_ , something to take the attention off of the fact he was dripping all over the Malfoys' nice carpet, Harry shot a glare at Dobby.

"Dobby was at my house; he was… well, he was trying to blackmail me," Harry explained, trying to ignore the house-elf when he began to whimper loudly. "He smashed my aunt's pudding and then I grabbed him and was suddenly here."

Dobby gave a choked sob, but Harry had no pity left for him after the pudding fiasco – plus he'd begun to ramble. Clearly, his brain had yet to regain control of his mouth. "He got me into a right lot of trouble with my uncle with all the noise he was making in my room. _And_ he ruined the special dessert my aunt made for tonight's dinner party. Cream all over the kitchen! All because _he_ didn't want me going back to Hogwarts. Apparently, something bad is going to happen or something, and Dobby wanted to 'save' me."

"What?" Mr Malfoy said sharply, jerking his head to Dobby, who was shaking from head to toe, twisting his ears in punishment. "Is that true, elf?"

Dobby trembled violently, glancing at Harry in terror, before he burst into tears and nodded. Immediately, he flung himself back onto the ground, bashing his head violently onto the carpeted floor with dull thumps. Even though he was furious with the house-elf, Harry winced in sympathy at the horrible sounds of Dobby punishing himself. At least the thick carpet helped absorb the impact.

"Enough!" snapped Mr Malfoy, eyeing Dobby with disgust. "Stop that at once, Dobby!"

Like a switch had been turned off, Dobby immediately stopped striking himself and curled into a ball, rocking himself back and forth as tears streamed down his face and onto his filthy pillowcase. Mr Malfoy frowned down at the house-elf, grey eyes speculative as Dobby sobbed into his knees. Harry was utterly bemused at his antics.

"It seems," said Mr Malfoy at last, looking at Dobby with revulsion. "That either you cannot explain yourself without breaking house-elf laws, or you simply wish not to. Whatever the reason, I shall deal with you later."

He turned on Harry, and eyed the mess on the carpet. With a flick of his wand, both the carpet and Harry had been cleaned of pudding. Mr Malfoy nodded at Harry. "Though we meet at last, Harry Potter, it is in less than pleasing circumstances. Draco has told me much about you, and has previously extended multiple invitations for you to visit us during the holidays. Although, as of late, we have been under the impression that perhaps you did not want to associate with us; your lack of correspondence –"

"Um, about that," Harry interrupted hurriedly, "I haven't been receiving my mail, so I had no idea Mal- Draco had invited me." Harry stopped, unsure how to continue. He didn't _really_ want to get Dobby into trouble, but it was the house-elf's own fault that all this had happened in the first place. Besides that, shouldn't Mr Malfoy know that his employee had been going directly against his wishes? "I wasn't getting my letters because your house-elf was stopping them," Harry said hurriedly, trying to ignore the squeal of panic from the corner. "I only found out tonight when Dobby showed up in my house."

Mr Malfoy's eyes narrowed with fury as he swung around to face Dobby. "Explain yourself now," he hissed with such venom that Dobby actually jerked back, eyes wide with terror.

Dobby glanced from his master to Harry and back, tears leaking from his eyes once more. Then he seemed to come to some kind of decision, uncurling himself to stand unsteadily before he pulled the thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing, looking up at Mr Malfoy with something very close to loathing.

"Dobby did it for Harry Potter's sake!" said Dobby defensively, turning his large eyes to Harry. "Now that evil things are being planned for Hogwarts, he mustn't return, but now! Now it is too late! If only Harry Potter knew what he means to us, the lowly, the enslaved, us dregs of the magical world! Harry Potter, who defeated He Who Must Not Be Named and ended his reign of terror, shines like a beacon of hope for those of us who –"

Harry couldn't believe this. "By trying to ruin my life, you thought you were _helping_ me?" Harry snapped, ignoring Dobby's flinch. "Thanks a lot, Dobby, but I'd rather you keep your nose out of my business. And I really don't appreciate you implying that Draco or Mr Malfoy or whoever is trying to kill me."

Instead of looking ashamed, Dobby eyed Harry with a pitying gaze. "Harry Potter is too kind, too young, to possibly know of the terrible deeds once committed –"

There was a loud bang and a squeal of pain. Mr Malfoy looked livid. "Silence, Dobby! _Accio Harry's letters,_ " he said coldly, flicking his wand.

The bundle of envelops flew from Dobby's grasp into Mr Malfoy's hands, who passed them to Harry without taking his eyes from the house-elf. "Forgive the dismissal, Mr Potter," said Mr Malfoy with tight-lipped anger. "But I must... deal with Dobby right now."

Harry glanced at the house-elf crumpled on the floor with concern, but Mr. Malfoy smiled tightly.

“No need to worry, Mr Potter. The Ministry are quite capable at dealing with unruly house-elves. I’m sure they will be able to fix the problems Dobby has caused you. But I think it’s best you leave me to deal with this for the moment. Draco is in the drawing room down the hall and to your right, the door is open, so you should be able to find it by yourself," said Mr Malfoy with a sharp smile that made Harry shiver. "I'll be along shortly after I've dealt with this... mess."

"Thank you, sir" Harry said with another nervous bow. He made his way past Mr Malfoy, only to pause, glancing over his shoulder.

Dobby's tearful green eyes were fixed on him as he frantically shook his head; mouth opening and closing noiselessly like a fish. For a moment, Harry felt a brief spasm of pity. But then it passed. He had caused Harry nothing but trouble.

"Bye, Dobby," he muttered and turned down the hallway.

Clutching his letters, Harry made his way down the hall, the many Malfoy portraits on the walls scowling down at him as he went past. On the right, a door stood open, bright light pouring from within along with a drawling voice that Harry hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed. With a smile, Harry stepped into the drawing room.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad twelfth birthday after all.

Despite his impromptu arrival, Malfoy’s parents appeared delighted to have him stay with them for the remainder of the holidays. Harry had been concerned that he wouldn’t be able to recover from his terrible first impression, that they would be appalled Malfoy had befriended someone so low-class and obviously muggle, but surprisingly, they approached his ignorance at the magical world with fond exasperation, insisting that it was their duty to educate him on life in the wizarding world. While Mrs. Malfoy was clearly influenced by her unexpectedly strong maternal nature, Harry suspected Mr Malfoy was helping him mostly because he simply could not stand anything muggle related and would not be happy until Harry acted like a proper wizard should. There was a considering gleam that occasionally lit his eyes when he was speaking to Harry, as though he was measuring his worth. Harry had not felt so aware of his own fame since Hagrid had first taken him to Diagon Alley, self-aware of how very ordinary he was compared to the legend of the Boy Who Lived.

Certainly, life at Malfoy Manor was making it plain how ignorant Harry was at even the simplest wizarding things. He got a shock the first time he looked in the mirror over the guestroom mantelpiece and it shouted: _"Tuck your shirt in, scruffy!"_ A wrong turn on the way to the dining room had Harry stumbling into a hidden trapdoor that led to a cellar beneath the house, and was only released when Mrs. Malfoy heard his shouts from the drawing room. The grounds surrounding the Manor were extensive, with the gardens home to a variety of magical and mundane plants, including a large Venomous Tentacula – Harry and Malfoy had laughed themselves sick when it managed to snag a passing albino peacock and Mr. Malfoy shouted himself hoarse at the plant, which was bulging slightly at the base.

Harry didn't have long to feel too guilty about losing the Malfoys their house-elf when Mrs. Malfoy managed to acquire a new one the very next day (when he asked her how she managed it so quickly, she raised her eyebrows and simply said: "Money"), a tiny little female named Posey, who was ecstatic at having her very own family after working at a castle in Ireland with thirty others. She had been only too happy to get Harry's things from Privet Drive, to which he was eternally grateful – left any longer, he would have been forced to ask Mr. Malfoy for help retrieving them, and that was an encounter he wasn't sure should _ever_ occur.

Despite now having access to his trunk and wand, Harry only had his Hogwarts robes in the way of wizard clothes, a fact that had Mrs Malfoy declaring that she could no longer bear seeing him in muggle clothes – or Mr Malfoy's grimacing at the sight of his ratty jeans – and took Harry and Malfoy shopping.

Harry had been excited about going to Diagon Alley, but Malfoy had gloomily informed him that they wouldn't be seeing much of it if they were clothes shopping; and indeed, as soon as they arrived, Mrs Malfoy dragged them into Twilfit and Tattings where Harry was forced to spend hours trying on robes of various colours and styles. The rather flamboyant salesman seemed determined to dress Harry in outrageous choices such as mustard yellow and metallic purple, too Malfoy 's endless amusement as he snidely offered ridiculous suggestions. A chance for revenge finally came when Mrs. Malfoy decided Malfoy should get some new robes as well. Harry quietly informed the salesman that Malfoy was extremely self-conscious about his appearance and really wanted to look 'avant-garde', but only liked colours in neon shades. Delighted by the challenge, the salesman draped Malfoy in striped and polka-dot numbers, who ended up yelling at Harry when the salesman refused to listen to his protests and kept insisting that he looked 'fabulous!'

Harry was feeling quite proud as he made his way down to breakfast wearing one of his brand-new periwinkle-blue robes, beaming when Mr Malfoy eyed his clothing with a pleased smile.

"Morning!" he greeted the table happily. Mrs Malfoy frowned and caught him as he walked past to run a hand through his unruly hair, which as always refused to lie flat.

"Merlin, what are _you_ so chipper about?" growled Malfoy as Harry took his seat opposite him, trying to pat down his hair.

"Happy to be alive, Draco, happy to be alive," Harry sang loudly, smirking when Malfoy groaned.

"Pipe down, scar-head," Malfoy muttered at his toast, "It's too early to be happy."

Harry's smirk only widened. "But Draco, it's such a lovely morning!" he half-shouted. "ISN'T IT A LOVELY MORNING, MRS. MALFOY?"

Laughing, he ducked as Malfoy hurled his half-eaten toast at him. Mr. Malfoy glanced up with a reprimanding frown, and Harry mumbled his apology, mouth still twitching with glee. He was forever surprised at how much he was allowed to get away with, considering how stiff the Malfoys seemed.

"Honestly, Draco, you are utterly uncouth this morning," she scolded slightly as Posey arrived with a _crack!_ Harry sniggered when Malfoy flinched at the sound.

"It's not my fault, I just _hate_ mornings," whined Malfoy. "Mornings just shouldn't exist; everybody should all simply get up at midday instead of this ridiculous hour."

"‘Early to wake, gold to make’, Draco," said Mr Malfoy over his newspaper.

Malfoy pouted but said no more, stabbing his eggs sulkily.

Posey waved two letters in her tiny hand. "Hogwarts letters for Young Master Malfoy and Mr. Potter," she squeaked tremulously, bobbing a strange cross between and curtsy and bow.

Harry almost thanked her before he caught himself; unlike Dobby, Posey did not appreciate any politeness for her services, something Mr. Malfoy coldly informed him was to be expected. Harry swore to himself that he’d get the hang of all the complicated magical social mores even if it killed him.

Malfoy frowned blearily at his book list. "Hold on, what's with all the Lockhart books?" he asked. "Surely our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher won't actually be expecting us to read that drivel!"

Harry hummed thoughtfully. "Guess that means it's not going to be Professor Snape then."

Mr. Malfoy frowned at that. "So it would seem. But he did apply for the job this year; in fact, he was one of the few who did. How he would have been overlooked is – oh, but of course. I'm sure this is Dumbledore's doing. That man has been denying Severus that position for nearly eleven years."

Harry looked up in surprise. "Really? Do you know why that is?"

The older Malfoy shrugged, folding his paper. "I've long been of the opinion that Dumbledore's no good for Hogwarts – I've tried getting him removed before, but the other school governors won't budge. _They_ all think that incompetent old fool is absolutely wonderful. Hah! Muggle-lovers like him and that Arthur Weasley are just disgraces to the name of wizard."

Harry squirmed uncomfortably in his seat at the mention of Ron's father, who Mr. Malfoy seemed to hold in particular contempt. Apparently grudges seemed to run in the family. He’d kept his mouth closed around both the younger and older Malfoys about the enthusiastic letters he’d been exchanging with Ron since arriving at the Manor.

"Mum," said Malfoy abruptly, bored with the current conversation. "Now we've got our book lists, we need to go to Diagon Alley, right? Can we go next Wednesday; there’s a new broom out that day."

"Not on Wednesday, love, I'm having tea with Elladora," said Mrs Malfoy.

"I'll take the boys, Narcissa," said Mr Malfoy. "I've got some business to attend to at Borgin and Burkes."

"Thank you, Father!" said Malfoy with a grin, Harry murmuring his own thanks.

"Not a problem, boys," said Mr Malfoy. "Well then, I'd best be off, I have business at the Ministry. What are you two planning to do today?"

"Quidditch!" chimed Malfoy and Harry together.

"I'm practising for tryouts," said Malfoy proudly.

Mrs. Malfoy immediately frowned worriedly. "Be _careful_ though, won't you? I don't want any accidents."

Malfoy immediately puffed up. "I'll be _fine_ Mother, it's only for Seeker; Harry won't be throwing rocks at me or anything."

"Can't make any promises though," Harry muttered, hiding a grin at Malfoy's warning look.

"But Seeker is the most dangerous position, isn't it?" said Mrs. Malfoy fretfully.

"Not at all, Mrs. Malfoy," assured Harry, grinning wickedly at Malfoy. "I mean, they are often the most targeted, seeing as they can end the game and all, but as long as they're fast enough, they don't end up injured _too_ often."

"Harry's just kidding, Mother," Malfoy jumped in as Mrs. Malfoy stiffened. “ _Kidding_.”

"Don't worry, Mrs. Malfoy, I'll be sure to look after Draco," Harry conceded at her frantic look. "I'll teach him how to be a _good_ flyer, so he won't get hurt."

Mrs. Malfoy seemed slightly mollified, but Malfoy scowled at the veiled insult.

"Just you wait till we're in the air, Potter," Malfoy hissed. "Then I'll show you what I'm made of."

"Don't fall off then," said Harry wickedly. "Or I really _will_ see what you're made of, inside _and_ out."

"HARRY!" shouted Malfoy at Mrs. Malfoy's horrified gasp.

 

 

 

Harry was sucking hard on his straw – it had become clogged with ice-cream – when a pair of hands suddenly clapped down on his shoulders.

"Argh!"

The clogged ice-cream came whizzing up the straw and into his nostrils at his surprised yell. Harry choked and toppled off his chair. Laughing, the owner of the hands hoisted Harry back to his feet.

Ron Weasley sniggered, throwing himself into a chair at Harry's shaded table. The other two chairs were quickly occupied by Fred and George, Ron's elder twin brothers, who were wearing identical grins.

"Scared you, little serpent?" George asked innocently as Harry blew his nose with a napkin, the ice-cream freezing his sinuses.

"Gits," said Harry without heat. The Weasley twins snickered.

Ron chuckled. "Alright then, Harry?"

Rubbing his nose, Harry glared at the other boys. "I’m regretting inviting you."

"You offered to buy me ice-cream," reminded Ron playfully. "That's the only reason I'm here."

"Yeah," said Fred, smirking. "Otherwise there's no way we'd _ever_ associate with you, famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. How you wounded ickle Ronnikins last year, you heartless beast you!"

"That's why I'm buying him an apology ice-cream!" defended Harry. "I'm a Slytherin, I _have_ to buy your forgiveness, it's the _only_ way!"

George laughed, shaking his head. "Seriously, Harry, you don't make for a convincing Slytherin at all, no matter how much that Lucius Malfoy may have taught you about pureblood politics."

Harry pouted. "And here I thought I was really getting the hang of it."

"Speaking of Slytherins, where's ferret-face?" asked Ron, peering around suspiciously.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Malfoy is off with his dad, you prejudiced git, and we're meeting up later."

Ron ignored the jab, peering at the menu. "How come? He's normally attached to the hip with you."

"I may or may not have totally trounced Malfoy during Quidditch practice, so he's throwing a tantrum. Mr Malfoy's going to take him to look at racing brooms later on, so hopefully he'll be in a better mood after that."

Ron didn't bother to hide his glee. "Excellent! I knew that git wasn't as big a hot shot as he claimed. Hope he takes ages, I really don't want to run into that rotten little–"

"No bad mouthing whilst in my presence please," said Harry loudly, grinning when Ron heaved a theatrical sigh.

"You said I was free to hate Malfoy to my heart's content. It was what I was owed after that shit he pulled in the Forbidden Forest."

Harry fixed his eyes on the cauldron shop opposite, trying to remember the speech he’d practiced for this very question. "Yeah, but he's still my friend. If you must insult him, do it to his face and not to me, otherwise he'll get all prickly that you were talking smack about him to me behind his back, confirming his worst fears."

"This go both ways or does Draco dearest get special privileges?" Ron said slowly, face blank.

Harry swallowed, trying for an apologetic smile. "Fair's fair, but Malfoy doesn't know about The Arrangement yet. Call me a coward, but I thought I'll wait until the last possible moment before letting that particular bomb drop. Ignorance is bliss and all that."

Harry reached to take another slurp of his drink only to find that while he and Ron had been talking, the twins had polished it off.

"That's our apology ice-cream for your snubbing us last term," explained Fred at Harry's glare.

"We were heartbroken, Harry," said George, spooning out the last dregs of chocolate syrup. "Completely devastated, we were."

"Could barely sleep at night," said Fred, burping.

Harry groaned as Ron sniggered. None of the Weasley boys seemed to have retained any bitter feelings concerning the events of the previous years; even Ron, who had at least responded to his letter, although it had been one of blandest interest. Harry had, after a great deal of consideration and a minor argument with himself in the bathroom mirror, replied to Ron's letter with an offer of friendship and a contrite apology – all without a word to Malfoy, of course – after which the two had kept up a correspondence and decided to give being friends another try.

While he was still nervous about choosing to rekindle his friendship with the Gryffindors, Harry was now confident enough in his standing with Malfoy that he was sure he wouldn't _lose_ Malfoy over it (though many tantrums would be had), but boundaries would have to be set if he wanted to maintain both relationships. Besides, it was the holidays, which in Harry's opinion meant anyone was fair game. Inter-house rivalries were reserved for school. He had almost convinced himself to believe it too.

Suddenly, Harry remembered something. "Wait a minute, where are your parents? Surely they would know better than to let you come here _alone_."

Fred chuckled. "As if. Mum would never allow us to wander Diagon Alley without her close by."

"She's with Ginny," George elaborated. "Our dear baby sister is starting Hogwarts, so Mum told us to bugger off while she went to get all of her things. Has Ron told you about your little fan?"

"Don't start on that," warned Harry, embarrassed. He wasn't keen on letting them start into _that_ subject whilst face to face, letters were humiliating enough.

The Twins looked quite prepared to start on that very subject, when a voice called out to him.

"Harry! Harry!"

Turning at the sound of his name, he spotted Hermione Granger weaving down the crowded street towards them, her bushy brown hair flying behind her as she ran.

"Oh, it's _wonderful_ to see you again; I've been missing everyone all holidays! I've only just got here... well, I've already been to Gringotts, had to exchange my money, but my parents just left. Is Draco here?"

"His dad had some business, but we're meeting up later," Harry said, glancing at the Weasleys in alarm. Hermione blinked. Then blinked again.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise I was interrupting..."

Fred and George hastily said their goodbyes, claiming to have spotted a friend, leaving Harry to a painfully awkward silence. He knew all too well exactly what Hermione would have to say about The Arrangement, Hermione already eying Ron stonily. Time for some hasty smoothing over.

"Um, Hermione, you remember Ron Weasley right? From school?" Harry said brightly. It sounded pathetic even to his ears.

"Not really," she said coolly, memories of their previous encounters clearly painted on her face.

Harry winced. Damn, he really needed Hermione with him on this one. "Well, me and Ron have been owling each other over the holidays, so I suggested we meet up at Diagon Alley and hang out together. You don't mind if he tags along with us, do you?"

"Why would I mind?" Hermione said in a way that suggested she would very much mind.

"Well, er, I know Gryffindors and Slytherins don't really get along well on principle, but I'm not asking you to be Ron's friend, just be civil, yeah?"

Ron snorted. "A civil Slytherin? Sorry mate, but apart from you, all of them totally hate our guts."

Hermione immediately bristled. "Excuse me? I most certainly am not so petty as to be prejudiced against a person simply because of their Hogwarts house."

"So then, you have something against me personally!" accused Ron snidely.

"I don't even know you, why would I have something against you alone?" Hermione said defensively.

"So you don't judge based on house, and you don't hate me as an individual?" Ron surmised.

"That's right!" snapped Hermione.

Ron beamed. "Good! So then there's no reason why you and I can't get along."

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it, frowning at the unexpected logic.

Grinning, Harry stood and patted his pocket full of money. "Don't worry about it too much, Hermione. Come on, I owe you guys an ice-cream."

Perhaps due to Harry's warning about Hermione's reaction to their hanging out, Ron didn't seem too ruffled by her ongoing coldness towards him. Rather he found her antics mildly amusing, and seemed bent on harassing her however possible, teasing her as much as Harry would allow him to and laughing whenever his 'attempts at bonding' with her crashed and burned. Harry was keeping a firm lookout for Malfoy, in the hopes that a potential encounter outside of school and with several carefully re-rehearsed scenarios whirling in his head, Harry could get Malfoy and Ron to come to some kind of truce. However, wherever Malfoy had gone off to, it apparently wasn't anywhere in Diagon Alley.

An hour later and no Malfoys in sight, the trio headed for Flourish and Blotts to get their school books. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop, with a large crowd already jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. Mrs. Weasley was already in line, books in hand. A small, red head peering around Mrs Weasley, large brown eyes fixed on Harry as they made their way over. He caught Fred's eye behind them; the older boys winked, puckered his lips and mimed kissing. Harry scowled, trying to ignore George batting his eyelashes.

“What is _this_?” came a familiar drawling sneer. Harry tensed, glancing behind him.

Malfoy was glowering at the Weasleys, pink blotches on his cheeks. He looked beyond furious, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes dark as a coming storm. Harry’s hear began thundering in his chest, all his carefully practiced lines slipping out of his head.

“We just, we kinda met up here. Totally random coincidence,” Harry lied, all thought of explaining The Arrangement gone from his mind. It seemed mad, now, thinking that Malfoy would be ok with the Weasleys.

“Is that so?" Malfoy spat, glaring down at the smallest Weasley watching them nervously. "Got yourself a little girlfriend in the span of a few hours. Can't say much for your taste."

Ginny flushed as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart books.

"Oh, it's you," said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. "Bet you're surprised to see me with Harry, eh?"

"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," retorted Malfoy. Harry tensed. Everything was already falling apart. He needed to intervene, tell them to pull their heads in, preferably before Malfoy said anything stupid and insulting like- "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for that lot."

Ron went scarlet as Harry groaned. Dropping his books, Ron angrily clenched his fists, but Harry threw out an arm before he could move. This action didn't go unnoticed by Malfoy, who's upper lip curled, the first sign of an oncoming tantrum.

"But the blood traitor has a good point," he said with a scowl, eying Harry. "Whatever are you doing here with him? Was that what you've been doing all day, hanging out with this flea-bitten Weasel?"

"Hah! What? Does it matter to you if Harry's been hanging with me?" snarled Ron before Harry could reply. "Or is that why you always gotta have tabs on him, in case he runs off and makes friends with someone better than a ferret-face like you?"

Malfoy sneered, drawing himself up to his full height, ignoring Harry’s placating hands trying to draw him away. "Well, seeing as he's staying at my house, it does matter. We wouldn't want him to be associating with someone like _you_ , we don’t want a blood traitor’s fleas in the house. Besides, we're trying to keep Harry's name stain free, so scourges of society like you are a liability. Imagine if there’s a story in there that makes mention of him being seen with _you_."

"You leave him alone!" said Ginny, appearing at her brother’s elbow to level an impressively fierce glare at Malfoy.

Malfoy’s face contorted into something truly frightening as he met Ginny’s stare. "Oh look, Harry, you've got yourself another ginger fan," drawled Malfoy, his unimpressed tone completely at odds to the ugly expression on his face. "But you sure do attract the thick ones, don't you? Must be difficult when such ugly little twats don’t know when they aren’t wanted."

"That's it!"

With a roar, Ron flung himself at Malfoy, but both Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket before he could reach the smaller boy.

“What is this?” Mr Malfoy was sneering in just the same way as his son, cold eyes flicking over Ron to rest on Harry.

Malfoy hitched his own perfect imitation of his father’s sneer. “I was just saying to Weasley that we’re leaving, _aren’t we, Harry?_ ”

Swallowing, Harry nodded meekly, moving over to Mr Malfoy’s side. Grey eyes flickered down at him for a moment, then Mr Malfoy straightened. Placing his hand on Harry's shoulder, he nodded curtly at the Weasley's before steering Malfoy and Harry away.

Ron watched them go, an unreadable expression on his freckled face as he watched them leave. It had been a disaster, an absolute disaster. The Arrangement had been a good idea, Harry was sure of it, and it could work, but Malfoy hated the Weasleys, and Harry… Harry had had enough. By the way Malfoy’s face was still twisted with fury, dangerously silent as they made their way back to The Leaky Caludron, Harry knew he had to do something and quick before Malfoy got it into his head to do something stupid and ruin everything. At least, Harry thought gratefully as they waited in line for the Floo, nothing bad could happen before they get back to school.

 

 

 

Hermione was totally ruining his angry march. How was Harry supposed to enjoy his furious stomping when she refused to let go of the back of his shirt, tugging with all her might. It put a bit of a damper on his righteous indignation when he was being strangled by his own collar. And navigating between students down a train carriage was not being made any easier with his personal screaming harpy attached, nor any less embarrassing.

"For Heaven's sake – Harry, will you just stop and _think_ for a second! You're being totally – ouch! – _irrational_. You're overreacting – no, _you_ stop it – over nothing, Harry, _nothing_! I'm sure this – you Hufflepuffs shouldn't be blocking the corridor – is all just a big misunderstanding. There could be any number of reasons they're not – _oh no –_ "

Harry had finally made it to the Slytherin carriage, the door to the compartment claimed by the second-year boy’s wide open (unfortunately; Harry had _so_ wanted to get to fling it open dramatically). Greg and Vince had seemingly bought half the lunch trolley between themselves, with an impressively sized mountain of sweets piled on their seat. Opposite them, Blaise and Malfoy were occupied in the game of chess balanced precariously in between them on their seat, chuckling every now and then when the tiny pieces lost their footing with the motion of the train. At the sight of his currently former friend's peaceful nonchalance, Harry's rage returned full force.

"What did you do, Malfoy?" Harry snarled, ignoring the surprised looks from the other boys.

Malfoy turned and raised a pale eyebrow. "What's the matter, Potter?" he asked innocently. Far too innocently. "Something wrong?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Malfoy. You know what's wrong."

"I can't read your mind, Potter; I don't always know everything you're thinking about. Sometimes you have to share."

"Hah! Practice what you preach, Malfoy. How can you talk about 'sharing' when you can't even let me be _friends_ with anyone else?"

"Unless I'm wrong, aren't you friends with Blaise here? What about Granger and the girls? What about Crabbe and Goyle? Or don't you think they're your friends?"

"Don't try and twist my words! You _know_ who I'm talking about! And since he’s not on the train and seeing as the last we saw of them you were being a right shit and leaving his little sister is a blubbering mess, seeing as his brothers have no idea _where they are_ , I'm pretty sure I can think of one person who might be responsible for this mess."

Malfoy shrugged lazily then turned back to the chessboard lying between him and Blaise. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Harry couldn't believe the lying little git! He'd never thought Malfoy would be capable of _this_ level of maliciousness. He drew himself up to his full height and moved to stand over Malfoy, shaking with fury. "Yes, you damn well do. I _know_ you did something to Ron. For some 'mysterious' reason they never made it onto the train with the rest of their family, and this is too dumb and petty to _not_ be something you'd pull. You've been plotting to get revenge on them since Diagon Alley, don't think I didn't notice. I don't know how, but you _are_ responsible for Ron and Ginny being missing."

Malfoy looked up at that, grey eyes flashing with anger. "You think I’d waste my time on filthy blood traitors like them," he sneered.

Harry smiled without mirth, his eyes cold. "Play dumb if you want, but don’t think that’ll get you off the hook. I know you’re responsible, and believe me, I’ll make you regret it," he said grimly.

Malfoy stiffened, face clouding with hurt before smoothing over into a blank mask.

Shaking off Hermione's restraining hand; Harry grabbed his trunk from the luggage rack and hoisted Hedwig from the seat, turning on his heel without a backward glance at the rest of the compartment's occupants.

As he shouldered past to track down the Twins, Hermione sighed. "Why must you two always insist on all this _drama_?" she said in exasperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry my dudes, but I live for the drarry drama. I can't abide their relationship being anything but a rocky love-hate roller-coaster. Also I've decided to start doing alternating POV, so we're gonna get a little peak into Draco's angsty little noggin too.


	7. Signed Photos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is definitely not over a year late or anything.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Granger said, tapping her beetle with her wand. It’s shiny black body morphed into a smooth glittering button.

Draco rolled his eyes, transfiguring his own beetle with a careless tap of his wand. “I’m doing what Professor McGonagall told us to do, but that is apparently too confusing for you? And here I was thinking you were half-way clever. Silly me,” he said idly, charming his button to roll in lazy circles around their desk.

This time Granger rolled her eyes, brushing his button to the side and placing two new beetles down in front of them. She glanced over her shoulder, and murmured out corner of her mouth, “Harry said it as plain as day, Draco. He is going to come after you for what happened to Ron Weasley and his sister. And yet so far, he’s not said or done a single thing all week. And you don’t think that’s strange at all? He still thinks you did it, and you’re acting like you _did_ , even though it was the sister’s fault. Keep it up, and Harry really will come after you.”

Draco threw a lazy glance over his shoulder, where Potter was jabbing angrily at his own beetle scuttling frantically over the desk and looking decidedly more insect than haberdashery. Draco sighed, transfiguring his new beetle into a bright orange button, and just to ruffle Granger’s feathers, transfigured it back into a beetle again. It always felt good to remind her who was the best in this class, no matter how many books she shoved down her gullet. “Well I appreciate the warning, Granger. Truly. I am beyond moved that you are so sick with worry that you scurried to my side to warn me of the grave danger I’m in. I’ll be sure to watch my back now that I know I’ve angered the feared Dark Lord slayer currently failing basic wandwork behind us.”

Granger turned the remaining beetles into buttons without batting an eye. “It’s good you’re not being precious about all this at all, Draco. Cool as a cucumber, you are.”

“Don’t be smart, Granger,” sneered Draco, collecting the buttons. “That’s my job.”

As he passed over the completed buttons to Professor McGonagall, he caught a flash of green as Potter hastily lowered his gaze again, and Draco didn’t bother to hide his gloating smile. That was the thing with Granger, she didn’t understand – Potter would never be a threat to him, no matter how hard he tried. Their first year may have been touch and go, but Potter had chosen _him_ in the end, and no matter how hard he fought against it, no matter how he tried to cling to the Weasel and those stupid noble ideals, it was far too late. Potter was tied to Draco now, and he would burn everything in order to make sure the other boy never forgot that.

“You really don’t see it as a problem, do you?” Granger said wonderingly, as they strode out of the classroom for lunch.

Draco slid into his seat at the table, lips curling with pleasure when he noticed Potter take a seat close by. “Is this incessant nagging actually heartfelt at all, Granger?” Draco drawled, pouring a goblet of pumpkin juice. “Or is this a distraction because of a certain someone’s lesson this afternoon? You’ve been carrying his books around all day, you must be excited to impress our dashing new celebrity.”

He grinned as Granger shifted, fruitlessly trying to tuck her hair behind her ear. The tip of her ear was red. Pansy giggled knowingly.

“Ooohh, is someone blushing? Got a little crush on our handsome new teacher, do we?” she cooed.

“At least I didn’t highlight all of his lessons in pink on my timetable, _Pansy_ ,” Granger retorted.

Pansy flicked her perfect sleek bob. “I’m not embarrassed! Lockhart is such a dish.”

The girls giggled loudly as Granger coughed and busily propped open her copy of _Break with a Banshee_ against the salt and pepper shakers.

“Girls,” Draco muttered to Crabbe.

There was a light touch to his shoulder, and Draco glanced up into brilliant green eyes. Potter glanced at Crabbe, and leaned closer, his robes brushing against Draco’s back.

“Can we talk?”

Draco fought to hide his triumphant grin, responding coolly, “We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

He was pleased to see Potter’s face crease into a scowl. Glancing around, Potter placed his hand on the table and leaned in closer, curling around him to shield their conversation from the others with his body. Draco startled as Potter lowered his head, his messy hair brushing against Draco’s temple. “You know what I mean, Malfoy. Later, can we talk? In private. I- I think we should, you know, hash things out a bit… with everything that I… with what happened. I should- _we_ need to talk to each other.”

Draco blinked, startled by their sudden proximity. He hadn’t expected that. Potter had never been very physical, always keeping a healthy boundary around his personal space. Draco blinked again. Potter’s eyes really were very green.

“Ok,” Draco said softly, watching as those emerald eyes flickered with some unknown emotion. “After classes. We can meet by our tree down by the lake.”

Potter’s face shifted, once again flickering with an emotion too quick to discern. “Yeah, alright. Our tree. I’ll- I’ll see you there.”

Potter straightened, and at once the sound of the Hall came roaring back, the air feeling cold and empty around him as Potter strode away, lunch untouched. Draco followed his retreating back, sipping idly at his pumpkin juice. Potter had actually approached him, wanted to talk, and Draco would have assumed it was in order to lure him out for his supposed revenge, because he’d seen Potter play the sweet, shy boy, stuttering over his words and batting his eyes at the adults and older students – he knew that Potter was as capable as any Slytherin to play the part to get his way. But there had been a moment, when Draco had spoken, that he’d seen the flicker of emotion that Potter hadn’t been able to disguise, not that close. Draco shivered, anticipation curling in his chest. Potter had looked _sad_.

Draco tipped back the remaining pumpkin juice and stood with a flourish. “Righto, chaps! Let’s hop to it. Lockhart’s lessons await us, and we’d best not be late.” Something sparked inside him, the feeling of anticipation expanding through his chest, filling his veins with a restless, giddy energy. After all that time, they would be able to talk, Draco could make him _see_ how important, how indispensable he could be.

Smiling knowingly, Pansy batted her eyes at him. “Now who’s eager? Looking forward to class, or could there possibly be something _special_ happening afterwards?”

He grinned, suddenly so excited he wanted to run, to shout to the whole school, to tell everyone how good he felt. He hadn’t felt that good since… last Christmas. The warmth of arms around him. Draco shook his head to rid himself of the memory.

“What’s not to look forward too?” he laughed, and giving in to the joy welling up inside him, bounced on the balls of his feet as Granger stood and tucked away her book. “This afternoon is going to be great. Perfect, actually.”

Crabbe paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, and glanced quizzically up at Draco. Pansy was also staring, mouth slightly open, trading a bemused glance with Granger.

“Ready to go?” he said brightly as they continued to stare at him.

“Are you feeling alright?” Granger asked slowly, peering into his face.

“I don’t feel alright, I feel _brilliant_.” Draco stepped back, suddenly furious. Why were they still here, asking him inane questions? “And if you don’t hurry it up, we’re going to be late. In fact, I think I’ll just go on ahead, if that’s all the same with you.”

He strode off, snapping at a gaggle of third year Hufflepuffs blocking the stairs to the first floor.

“Draco!” Pansy called out, hurrying after him, Granger hot on her heels. “Draco, wait, for Merlin’s sake, what’s gotten into you?”

Draco smiled when he saw the Defence classroom door wide open, and strode in. And abruptly froze. Pansy collided with his back, but he hardly noticed.

“That _hurt_ ,” she whined as Granger caught up to them, panting slightly. “Honestly Draco, a little warning next time! Don’t just suddenly-”

“Ah, nice and early, are we? I’d wager you’re all quite eager for your first lesson with me if you’re _this_ early. No need to be shy, I’m always thrilled to meet my young fans!”

The voice floated through the air like a cloud, a beautiful melodic cloud. Draco let out a shaky breath, staring wide eyed as Gilderoy Lockhart beamed at them, showing off every dazzling inch of that award-winning smile. He was wearing brilliant sky-blue robes that perfectly matched his eyes, a silver butterfly brooch fluttering its jewelled wings on the matching cap perched on his golden fly-away hair.

“It’s such an honour to meet you, Professor Lockhart,” Draco breathed, and felt his chest squeeze tight when he was awarded that blinding smile being turned on him alone. Behind him there was an incredulous squeak and a hard tug on his robes. He ignored it.

“Well then, why don’t you come in and introduce yourselves, and I can give my diligent young students a special treat,” Lockhart leapt from his desk in a twirl of sky-blue robes, beckoning them in. Draco jerked his shoulders, pulling his robes free and stepping closer.

Lockhart grinned, and revealed a spectacular peacock quill with a flourish. “A personalised autograph! What do you think about that…”

Draco felt his cheeks heat under that twinkling blue gaze as he held out his copy of _Voyages with Vampires_. “Malfoy, sir, Draco Malfoy. Thank you, sir, that would be wonderful. I’ll _treasure_ it!” His heart thundered as Lockhart began signing _his_ book with _his_ name in shining silver ink, giddy excitement rushing through him and filling his chest until he could nearly burst with happiness when Lockhart handed his book back with a cheerful wink.

He ducked his head with a thrilled giggle.

Dimly, through the fog of his euphoria at receiving a personalised autograph from Gilderoy Lockhart himself, he heard Granger murmur, “Oh, he is going to _kill_ Harry when this wears off.”

 

 

 

“-didn’t add the doxy eggs first. It won’t turn pink otherwise.”

Draco blinked. And blinked again.

The library swam into focus, Crabbe and Goyle scowling down at their copies of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ as Bulstrode added a note to a list of instructions, Davis lounging in the seat beside her, sucking on the end of her quill. Draco stared at the pile of books, the scattered notes for potion’s essays. He glanced down. His own notes were written out in meticulously neat handwriting as Father had always demanded of him, but the margins were full of doodles. His hand was paused in the act of creating another doodle, quill tip blotting the paper midway through a name. The margins were full of twisting vines and messy flowers, looping down the parchment. A few leaves looked suspiciously like hearts. Inside each looping vine was a name, written over and over again.

 _Gilderoy Lockhart_.

Draco took a deep breath, and clenched his fist. His quill snapped in half.

“Sorry, I just remembered I have to go murder Harry Potter,” he announced through clenched teeth.

Davis grinned, dropping her quill. “Finally woke up, I see.”

Finally? Oh, Draco was _definitely_ going to kill him. “How long has it been?” He glanced out the library window, noting the sun only just sinking below the horizon.

“Pansy said it happened after lunch, I think?” Davis leaned forward on her elbows as shoved his books in his bag.

“A few hours?” Draco frowned. “It felt longer than that.” Still, he supposed, a few hours could be salvageable. How many embarrassing things could he have done in a few hours?

“Oh no, sorry, I meant lunch time yesterday,” Davis said with a wicked grin.

Draco smoothed out his completed potions essay and carefully upended his ink pot over it, ignoring Davis’ cry of rage as the ink pooled over their desk.

“Crabbe, Goyle, let’s go, we’ll work on our essays later,” Draco said calmly. “I’ve got a murder to commit.”

Bulstrode vanished the ink seeping into her notes with a flick of her wand. “Try the quidditch pitch,” she offered without looking up. “Oh, and Professor Snape said he won’t cover for you if you get caught by the teachers, so don’t do anything permanent.”

Draco gave a jaunty wave as he strode off, Crabbe and Goyle dutifully at his heels. “Got it: don’t curse him where its visible.”

The halls were mostly empty, but Draco wasn’t going to take any chances until they were safely outside. He was sure if he tried to ask now, all that would come out was a scream. Hazy memories swam together with idle daydreams and fantasies, one terrible scenario after another. As they strode out of the Entrance Hall and across the grounds, Draco shivered as he imagined this news somehow getting back to Father. Whatever had been in that Love Potion had been strong stuff.

As the lights of the Quidditch Pitch flickered on in the distance, Draco rounded on Crabbe and Goyle.

“What did I do yesterday and today?” he asked urgently. “Did I say or do anything… noticeable?”

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged glances.

“You were enchanted, you didn’t know what you were doing,” Goyle said helpfully, patting his shoulder.

“What does that mean? _What does that mean?!_ ” Draco definitely did not shriek. Panic was beginning to set in at the sight of their kind smiles.

Crabbe shifted uncomfortably, swinging his arms. “You, um, you got an autograph from Professor Lockhart. It was signed special for you.”

Draco closed his eyes, and counted to ten as panic screaming threatened to spill out past his lips. He imagined punching Potter with each count. “Anything else?”

“Well you, er, were proud out getting the autograph. You showed everyone in the Common Room.”

He didn’t open his eyes. He added another ten punches to his count.

“And today there were these Gryffindor boys, they came up to us and were bragging about how Lockhart gave them special autographs too ‘cause he wasn’t treating you special or anything, and you got really angry. And they said it sounded like you had a crush on him or something, and then you got really red and you said, ‘so what if I do’. And then Pansy got really angry and tried to hex them and then Professor Snape came and told them all off.”

Crabbe finished his report and Draco at last opened his eyes. He didn’t wake up as he hoped he would, and this was all some terrible nightmare. Crabbe’s awkward smile faded at whatever he saw in Draco’s face. He shot a panicked look at Goyle, who looked momentarily lost, before spreading his hands in a helpless gesture.

“So, all in all, not too bad, right?” Goyle said placatingly.

Father had always been so proud of how adept he was at transfiguration, even as a child when most of his accidental magic involved turning his nanny’s chair into a giant spider or conjuring more sweets after Mother told him no. It was easy now for Draco to flick his wand, and his bag to turn into a fluffy pillow with a small pop. As the grounds deepened into darkness, the only illumination from the lights of Quidditch Pitch, Draco buried his face into the pillow and screamed.

With the world muffled by the pillow, Draco let himself go like Mother had taught him to do, letting each piece, good or bad, fall away. The anger was simmering through him like lightning, crackling and sparking every nerve, whiting out his thoughts until he could only see his hands on Potter, punching and clawing and kicking until Potter begged him to stop. No good, that was no good, his mother’s chastising voice a soothing balm in his mind, pushing him to concentrate. Anger was no good right now, he needed to think, otherwise he’d embarrass himself again and he needed a clear head when he confronted Potter. He wanted it to _hurt_. That he’d do this to him, that after everything he’d done for him, Potter would humiliate him like this, betray him like _this_. That needed to be pushed aside too, he couldn’t be hurt by Potter, not by some silly little prank. No, Draco was angry because Potter had betrayed him over something he didn’t even do, not because he cared about him or thought they were-

Pulling away from the pillow, Draco drew a shuddering breath, the air crisp now the sun had gone down. In his mind, he pictured puzzle pieces slotting back into place, closing in around the gaps of labelled ‘betrayal’ and ‘humiliation’.  He breathed in again, and let it out with a rush, opening his eyes as the rushing whirlwind in his head quieted down.

He nodded to himself, turning the pillow back into his bag with a flick. _‘Your pride is your armour, Draco_ ,’ Father’s voice reminded him.

Draco smirked and strode off towards the Quidditch Pitch and the distant sound of whooping floating across the ground.

Potter was flying in lazy circles, quaffle tucked under his arm as a Ravenclaw girl called after him, laughing with another girl with flaming red hair. A figure suddenly shot out of the sky, pointed straight at Potter, who didn’t even look up as his broom shot out of the way, moving as though it was simply a part of his body. Draco’s gift still serving him well.

Draco bit his lip, shoving away the stray thought. None of that now, especially since he noticed the figure pulling out of the dive had a shock of ginger hair.

He scanned the pitch. The other Weasley twin was shadowing a girl with dreadlocks who was hovering in front of the goal posts. Guarding them was a familiar face – the Weasel grinning as he looped in and out of the goal posts.

Potter was playing a match with _them_? Draco twirled his wand – he was sure he could set a significant portion of the Pitch ablaze before anyone could stop him. He’d blast those gingers off the face of the bloody earth.

Tilting his chin up and squaring his shoulders, Draco marched onto the pitch, Crabbe and Goyle following close behind. He didn’t bother to look up. In the stands, he could see Granger sitting with a book spread over her lap, but her eyes were fixed on him.

There was a slight gust of air as Potter landed in front of him, the Weasley’s touching down further back. Draco ignored them, eyes on Potter.

He didn’t look scared, or even sorry. Potter’s mouth was pressed into a tight line, a stubborn tilt to his jaw, but it was his eyes that had every buried part of Draco bursting forth again, a bright gleam in those emerald depths that looked vindictively _pleased._ He had called him ‘friend’, the lying little shit, had said Draco was important to him, and he had the nerve, the _nerve –_

“Hullo, Malfoy.”

Draco’s fist swung before he could think better of it, slamming into Potter’s jaw with a crack. Potter’s head jerked back, hands coming up uselessly as Draco’s pulled his fist back again, striking the side of his head. Up in the stands, there was a flash and click of a camera. Behind Potter, the Weasley twins bristled, eyes wary, but neither they nor the Weasel made any move to stop him as Potter stumbled away, wincing.

Something clicked in his head as the Weasleys glared back at him. there was something in their eyes, the same as Potter’s. They looked pleased.

Draco stared between Potter rubbing his jaw and the Weasleys watching carefully behind him. The red-haired girl was flanked by her brother’s, clutching the school broom, her brown eyes wide. Draco had remembered at look from King’s Cross, how they’d lit up at the sight of Potter walking towards Platform 9 ¾’s, a blush spreading across her cheeks as the Weasel had greeted Potter like they were the best of friends, glaring at Draco all the while as though daring him to say something, how Potter had fidgeted, glancing at Draco but not stopping, even _smiling_ at them. And how the youngest Weasel had blushed at that. Of course Draco said something about her silly little hero worship, crushing on the Boy Who Lived the moment she laid eyes on him, smirking as her blush turned to mortification. He remembered looking back as he’d pushed Harry through the brick wall, seeing her stricken face, the Weasel’s fury, had made sure the rest of the Weasley clan were through the gate before hissing, ‘Perhaps you and the Weaselette can create a Harry Potter fanclub for Potato-face losers. Be sure to charge a joining fee though, then you’ll be able to afford something other than those ratty clothes of yours and stop stinking up the place.’

It hadn’t been his best insult, but as the Weaselette turned crimson as her brother swore loudly, earning looks from the passing muggles, he had been satisfied that his message had come across loud and clear.

But the little rats must have snitched, gone whining to Potter like the cowardly babies they were, and Potter had…

Draco grinned at Potter still clutching his jaw, but he could help it twisting into a snarl. “I’d wondered where you got that Love Potion from. Should have guessed you had friends in _low_ places.”

“Aren’t you acting high and mighty, Mr. Lovestruck?” one of the twins sneered. “Can’t handle a little embarrassment after causing some for us, huh?”

Their sneers were good, but Draco had learnt his from the best, hitching on the look Father reserved for their most irritating guests. “I wasn’t actually talking to you, Weasel B, but I get that it must be hard for you to comprehend with all that ginger clogging your brains. And I don’t see how it’s my fault your sister is still having accidents at eleven years old. _I_ didn’t have a magical outburst after the age of eight. Are you sure she’s been toilet-trained too?”

The Weasel snarled, raising his wand as both twins started forward, fists raised. Draco felt Crabbe and Goyle step forward as well, rubbing their knuckles in warning.

“You just don’t get it, do you,” said Harry quietly.

Draco glared at him, at that _look_ that was still in his eyes. Potter shook his head, stepping closer, mouth still pressed in that stubborn little line.

“ _This_ is exactly why we– why _I_ did this. You talking to them like they’re nothing, like it doesn’t matter that Ron is my _friend_. You don’t even care that you’re hurting people.” Potter paused, his jaw working, glancing away before continuing without looking at Draco again. “I thought you were better than that. At Christmas, I thought you also… And after everything with Quirrell, and with Dobby, I thought you would understand.”

Potter took a deep, shuddering breath and turned back to Draco. It was like someone punched him in the gut, driving the air from his chest as Potter looked at him. The last clear memory from yesterday of Potter leaning close, the warmth of him against Draco’s back, and his eyes that had been so terribly sad. Potter looked at him and something was missing from his face that Draco could only see now that it had disappeared, shuttered away behind a wall of anger.

In the dark corner of his heart, something ached at the sight of it.

Draco’s lip curled. “You drugged me because I wasn’t _nice_ enough? Is that it? You thought the best revenge to my words was to get a potion that is illegal at Hogwarts and drug me as a prank. Yeah, I can really see how that was justified.”

Potter flinched, face slackening with a flash of guilt, but the twins stepped forward with matching smirks.

“What’s the matter, Malfoy, embarrassed the whole school knows about your big crush now?” Weasel B said with a vicious smile.

“Not that it’s much of a surprise, with the way you clung to Harry. Why work hard when you can ferret your way into the company of people better than you?” Weasel A added.

Draco stared up at them, unimpressed. He already had several plans on how to get back at them, especially since Father had told him the most interesting little titbits about that flea-bitten father of theirs. “Oh no, please stop reminding me I’m in the presence of _greatness_ ,” Draco drawled, eying Potter up and down.

Despite them acting as though they were such excellent friends with Potter, Draco had known him for a whole year, had shared a dorm with him, talked with him nearly every day. In the shade of the tree by the lake, Potter had sat next to Draco and told him in a quiet voice how embarrassing it was, the way people had stared at his scar, the way they talked about him as if he had done something amazing, when he didn’t even remember what it was that was so amazing in the first place. Even now, as Draco pretended to swoon, Potter’s face flushed, just like he knew he would.

“Well, since you’re such a fan of mine,” Potter said with a sneer of his own, despite the flush still in his cheeks. “Maybe I can give you a signed photo. I know how much you _treasure_ those.”

“Oh, are you giving out signed photos?”

Draco blinked. Potter blinked. They both turned and stared at the newcomer. A mousey-haired boy was beaming that them, a muggle camera clutched in his hands.

"All right, Harry? I'm – I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I was watching you fly, you were brilliant. Are you on the Quidditch team? I heard you were the youngest house player in two decades. D'you think – would it be all right if – can I have a photo too?”

"A photo?" Potter repeated blankly.

Draco began to grin.

"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forwards. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You Know Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightening scar on your forehead. If- if it’s alright, I mean, since you’re giving them out already, can I get a signed photograph as well."

Potter looked positively horrified as the mousey-haired boy held up his camera hopefully. He looked imploringly at the Weasleys, but they seemed equally nonplussed by the request.

Draco was more than happy to step up to fill the silence. "C’mon Potter, what are you waiting for?” he asked loudly, pleased at Potter’s automatic flinch. “Everyone queue up!" Draco roared, voice echoing around the empty pitch. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos. Quick, better hurry up or you’ll miss out on the incredible signed photos of Potter the Protector of the Wizarding World!"

"No, I'm not," said Potter angrily. "Shut up, Malfoy."

"You're just jealous," piped up Colin Creevey, naively unaware of the minefield he'd just tap-danced into.

" _Jealous_?" repeated Draco, a sneer slowly curling its way over his mouth – the tip of the incoming sarcasm iceberg. "Of who? Harry – or _you_? Because I know I've _always_ wanted to get a picture with _the_ Harry Potter. Oh no, wait, no I haven't. Or did you mean I'm jealous of our wizarding hero here? You're _right_ , I am. _Oh_ , how I wish I had annoying midgets fawning over me and always interfering in my business. Why, oh why couldn't the Dark Lord have tried to kill me so _I_ could hand out signed photos?"

"Like _you_ ever need an excuse to hand out photos of yourself," snapped Harry. "Though I don't know how you could ever give away a picture of yourself when they're all stuck revolving around your humongous ego."

" _I_ have a humongous ego?" said Draco in mock surprise. "Aren't you getting mixed up? I'm not _really_ the Boy Who Lived, you know, I was just using this thing called 'sarcasm'. Or do you think I need to worry about handing out signed photographs to my adoring fans to make myself feel better for the fact that I don’t deserve a lick of my fame and I damn well know it."

Potter reared back like he’d been slapped, and at once, Draco knew he’d gone too far. The quiet conversations by the lake had been like spun glass, too fragile to touch, too precious for anyone else, something Draco had hoarded, a closeness where ‘Potter’ had become ‘Harry’ and the world had shrunk to just them, looking up at Draco with anxious emerald eyes as though he was scared Draco would tease him for his worries. Those moments when it had been just to two of them studying by the lake, that had felt like Draco had seen something forbidden. It felt like he was special, that Potter gave him something that no one else had.

Before now, despite what Father always told him, Draco had never really realised how much another person’s secrets held such incredible power.

Draco stared into hurt emerald eyes, and willed his heart to be made of ice, smoothing his face into studied blankness.

“Whatever Malfoy,” the Weasel snapped, grabbing Potter’s arm. “Harry will always be ten times the wizard you are. Let’s get out of here, the rubbish is starting to stink up the place.”

Draco watched them go, Weasel A and B ruffling Potter’s hair, the Weaselette sticking close. He raised his wand, taking aim at their retreating backs, briefly fantasising about hexing them all until they were oozing sacks of pus. He nearly jumped when Goyle touched his shoulder, nodding behind him.

Draco lowered his wand with a sigh and glanced back. And grinned.

The mousey little Gryffindor hadn't moved off with everyone else, still fiddling with his camera. Draco's lip curled with disgust. A _muggle_ camera – the nerve of that filthy little mudblood. He strode over as casual as possible, aware that the Weasley gang were still within earshot. He didn't need anyone getting suspicious.

"Hey," Draco said, smirking when the mudblood jumped with surprise.

"What do you want?" asked the mudblood warily.

Draco bristled at the younger boy's tone and checked to see if the coast was clear. The pitch was empty – time to teach this uppity little brat a lesson.

The mudblood let out a squeak as Draco lunged forward and grabbed the scarlet tie, using it to pull the other boy almost off his feet so they were nose to nose. Crabbe and Goyle immediately stepped up to flank him, both scowling impressively as the final exclamation point for Draco's intimidation.

"Listen up, mudblood, because this is the only warning you're going to get," said Draco quietly. "Don't you dare speak to a Slytherin, especially not Harry, so casually ever again. You don't speak to us unless we speak to you, got it? What goes on between us Slytherins is none of your business, and we don't like it when people stick their great ugly noses into our business. Oh, and, in the future, you may _think_ it's alright to talk to Harry, so I'll tell you now: _don't_. Just because Harry is polite enough to not say anything doesn't mean all that attention was appreciated, so you'd better take your annoying fan-boy routine somewhere else; we don't associate with dim-witted, lowbred muggle scum like you. And if you dare to ignore my warning, I'll just have to remind you in a more... _permanent_ way. Understand?"

The tiny Gryffindor glanced frantically around the empty pitch for help, making Draco yank hard on the red and gold tie in warning.

"Do I have to repeat myself?" he asked coldly. Goyle cracked his knuckles.

"N-no!" squeaked the mudblood hurriedly. "I got it! Stay away from Harry, don't talk to the Slytherins; I understand."

Satisfied, Draco released the tie, smirking when the mudblood stumbled backwards. Brushing down his robes, Draco flicked his head dismissively. "Beat it, mudblood," he snapped.

Picking up the muggle camera from the ground, the Mudblood scurried away. Rolling his shoulders with a sigh, Draco made his way over to the edge of the pitch, only to stop in surprise at the person standing in the shadow of the stands. He smirked.

"Something you'd like to say, Granger?" he asked as he swept past.

Granger frowned unhappily as she turned to follow him. "Did you have to handle it like that?"

Draco's smirk grew as he spread his hands. "What'd you have me do?" he asked snidely. "I was doing that uppity brat a favour; he'd have learnt sooner or later how things work around here."

Granger frowned sadly as they strode across the grounds, the light from the Great Hall spilling out over the grass. "I wasn't talking about _him,_ " she said.

Draco clenched his fist, and jumped when pain lanced through his arm. Uncurling his fingers, he inspected his palm. A thin sliver of feather cartilage was lodged under the skin of his thumb, blood welling up around where it had pierced him. He picked out the broken shard of quill, flicking it away as they made their way around the lake towards the Entrance Hall. In the distance, he could just make out the outline of a lone tree swaying gently in the cool night air, its leaves fluttering down onto the shimmering mirror of the lake surface. In the dark corner of his heart, something ached at the sight of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has been lovely enough to comment, I apologise for not replying, I'm gonna try and get on that from now on :)


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